


Bayverse Drabbles

by FeeFido



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 31,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeeFido/pseuds/FeeFido
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some stand-alone drabbles, some WIPs for full-fledged fics that never came to fruition, most of it porn, all in the Michael Bay movieverse. Have fun, kids. ♥</p><p><b>Last update:</b> hole in one (Megatron/Starscream)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sensei (Drift/Optimus)

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at Transformers smut with the whole 'spike' thing.
> 
> The one after this will be using a different method, and is a lot better imo. Just skip this horrid one. lol

He likes being reminded of his place - his _new place_ \- having it solidified and reinforced in his mind, to remain without question. Without risk of losing his faction again.

Not as a con, but here, on his knees, kneeling in front of the large red and blue Prime in reverent silence. His long legs folded delicately underneath him, hands resting on top of metal plating, palms down and optics forward with the upmost of loyalty in his gaze; even when dimmed, and vision offline. 

He trusts Optimus here. If Optimus asked of him, he would move, would demonstrate every kata he knew, would contort himself however he pleased, whatever his Leader wanted. But for now, he is content like this; his _Sensei_ is content with him like this, and that's all Drift wants.

The samurai tips his helm back slightly at a sound, a soft and near silent whirring as internal fans kick on, and a wave of heat spreads over his faceplate as Optimus' panel slides away. He knows, because he can feel it in the surge of the other mech's energy, like an aura around him, like an invitation to do the same. It takes all of his self-control to not make a sound, to curl his fingers over his legs and visibly show how much he needs this, to fight off the desire to just reach out and _touch him_.

But he hasn't been told to move yet, and he will not disobey such an easy command. He will not.

"Very good, Drift. Your discipline shows."

The blue mech feels his spark jump at the praise, and his inner workings purr at his _Sensei's_ approval. For the devout decepticon turned autobot, just hearing those words pour from the great mech's mouth would have made all this waiting worth it, would have been enough to send Drift away with fulfillment and pleasure sparking in his chamber, but he knows they aren't done yet. Not until his _Sensei_ is done.

Drift curls his fingers into the plates of his armor, digging into the seams and into thick cables, biting back the feeling of _yes, finally, please_ as he feels the larger mech's hand at his helm, touching his faceplate, tracing the lines down to his sharp jaw and squeezing his chin until his mouth is willfully pried open.

"Hold like that. You are almost done." Optimus' voice processor crackles with a rumble, and _oh_ , his chassis is burning now with the strength of his reacting spark. He opens his mouth a little more when that warm metal hand removes itself from his golden face, silently begging, and he can hear him like a link directly into his comm. _Sensei's_ shallow venting, the quiet moans and slight movement directly above his face. And it's hard, impossible not to give in.

Something warm and bitter like acid drips down across his lips, in his mouth and over the cables of his tongue, and Drift can't help it. The samurai moans, squirms on his knees digging harshly into the earth as he laps at the fluid and spreads his thighs. Just enough to display himself to his Leader, present himself and all his wanton desire. He's already a dripping mess, insides churning and clenching around emptiness, a hole to be filled, needed to, by him.

" _Sensei... Irete...!_ " He shames himself by pleading. But he can't. He _needs_.

But Optimus only chuckles at him, and the Bugatti's chest revs with amassing pleasure as the first drops of hot transfluid streak his face.


	2. Cheeky Bastards (Crosshairs/Drift)

The meat bags are so blissfully naive in any matter Cybertronian, it's funny.

Even when something indecent is happening in the humans' own front yard, propped against their new barn, right in front of their squishy eyes, they don't make anything of it. Unobservant organics. Even while the other mechs around them shuffle and turn away and look absolutely scandalized on their behalf, they don't pick up on any of these nervous tones. Oblivious little things. Just sitting there blinking and staring with their little squishy doe eyes.

It's more than funny, actually, it's fucking hilarious. And Crosshairs is prepared to take full advantage of any amusement to be had on this planet.

His servos hovering around another mech's back-struts would make any respectable bot blanch at such an open show of intimacy, but to the humans it's just another friendly gesture, like a clasp to the rotator cup, or a handshake, or a punch. Sliding up behind Drift though, touching his sleek dark panels and feeling along the seams of the samurai's back chassis, down to the little panel directly below his last strut, that gets them some sidelong stares, but the humans say nothing, do nothing - ha! they probably think he's performing a maintenance check on their blue companion. Cleaning the leaves and bugs out of his actualizer, or some meat bag logic like that.

But that's far from the truth. Hound and Bee though, they know, they see the way he hovers around Drift, can pick up on the intensity of his spark and read the signatures he's giving off as he nears the stoic warrior with lewd intent. The yellow scout makes a distressed noise, his optics blown wide as soon as he sees Crosshairs slide up behind their small samurai, and Hound almost bites through his smoking piece of ammo as he watches Crosshairs lean back against the barn and pull the blue Bugatti to him.

Drift hesitates, welcoming the touch but uncertain what Crosshairs' aim is in doing this in front an audience. But with the subtle shift of Crosshairs' hips he smiles knowingly, doesn't say anything, doesn't even try to move away and regain his decency even as the green corvette molds along his back. If anything, Crosshairs swears he can feel him lean even further back, the weight increasing on his chestplates as the ex-con shifts teasingly in front of him, so close to lining them up for interface, but not quite there. Damn their differing heights.

"Getting cozy?" The human girl, Tessa, teases from the open window of their new quaint little house, watching the two autobots seemingly cuddling together in the crisp autumn evening, and the paratrooper can't help but laugh, his frame shaking with chuckles as his arms wrap around Drift's sturdy body, encompassing and pulling him closer, forcing him still as the panels in his chest subtly shift. Though it is easily heard and felt by them, the change remains out of view behind the samurai's form.

"We aren't all grit and snappy one-liners, you know. We're just as capable of affection as you meat bags," he throws right back at her, and smirks as he feels Drift's own soft laughter reverberating inside his hold, the struts around that small hidden panel twisting and opening to his slightest brush against it, and Pit he needs this now, can't get his driver out fast enough to frag this sleek mech wrapped in his arms. "We like our share of hugs from time ta time. Ain't that right, Drift?"

He thinks the shorter mech is going to say something in response, feels the vibrations of a word start in his audials; but he's silenced, his whole structure going tense against his green chest as Crosshairs shifts forward, hips titling, just enough, and he's finally sliding in. His driver slotting perfectly inside his samurai's tight socket. And he feels the lurch of energy as their systems merge, this pulsing warmth building in his sparkchamber as Drift's port grips and drags and draws him deeper until they're clicking together, joined intimately and absorbing every volt, and his greedy socket clutches for more.

It's only a second though. A brief flicker in Drift's composure as he moves and adjusts to Crosshairs' driver plugged inside him, sending pulses of raw data and energy directly into his core. Then he's regained himself.

Still, he only manages a soft hums in agreement, the sound like a purr around their intermingling systems, and it takes all of Crosshairs' control not to moan aloud into the cords and cables of the other's neck. Instead, he pulls him tighter, shifts closer, and growls into the shorter mech's comm as he loads his system up his raw data.

< Damn right you do ~ >

Drift groans internally, and he subtly presses back onto his driver. A clear confirmation.

"Well just don't break that wall! I don't think Mr Joyce will give us another barn!"

"We'll attempt not to." Drift somehow manages to quip with a straight face, and the paratrooper really does laugh aloud this time.

Tessa leaves the window with a lingering look, leaving it open to allow the cool air in, and let the quiet sounds of some human televised program float out into the yard. Crosshairs glances towards their two remaining allies, seeing the bee's winged back pointedly turned to their coupling, and Hound likewise facing away with heated cheek plates, constantly looking towards the empty window as if she might have had any inkling to what was happening. When their lines of sight cross, the green corvette smirks at him, as if daring Hound to say something to break the silence.

When he doesn't, Crosshairs supplies his own, in the form of Drift overloading on his driver with a chassis rattling gasp, optics flickering and legs shaking as his insides spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my version of fracking robots I guess. All transformers have a driver and a socket. The driver is on the front, like lower abdomen, not exactly between the legs but eh; it's level with the socket, which is on the back just underneath the last back-strut.
> 
> Like, think sticking a USB into your computer, and that sharing and intermingling of data is pleasurable. Ha this is the best explanation I have for you. Sorry if it's weird or whatever. orz


	3. Fantasy (Drift/Optimus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half the time when Drift says he's gonna go meditate for a few, he's actually going out to think about Optimus lol
> 
> Also, I try my hand at spike/valve stuff again, go easy on me I'm still very much a noob at this. orz

His hands could easily encase the breadth of his chassis, Drift thinks.

At his middle, below his chestplates where he is the thinnest, his thumbs meeting over the silver Bugatti symbol at his center... Optimus would have no trouble wrapping his large servos around him and holding his slighter body against any surface he pleased to have the small 'con. Hefting him up against a sturdy wall away from prying eyes, sprawled out on the earth and squirming like a pinned specimen. Or pulled flush against the Prime's own great frame, helpless to move against his greater strength.

Drift vents quietly as he leans back into the cool grass, optics flickering dimly up at the dark sky as his own servos move about his waist with flittering light touches and gentle scrapes, imagining the larger ones of his fantasies in their place, stroking at delicate edges and teasing his sensitive transformation seams. There's a beat of hesitation as they settle over jutting hip struts, and he wonders if Optimus would leave marks on him, scuffs of stark red paint or dented metal molded to the shape of his large fingers, intentional or otherwise; ones that would be all too easy to spot on his usually so immaculate body...

Part of Drift's processor dedicated to rational thought deems not. Optimus would be too aware of their differing size and strength, too mindful of his own power and selfless to his needs to so much as scuff his mate's finish. And yet...

He groans as he digs his servos in regardless, denting the armored plates under his grasp.

Drift ignores that logic for the sake of his well rehearsed fantasy. Of the bigger mech looming over and casting him in his shadow. His large, heavy hands touching, handling him, grasping and roaming wherever they pleased. The tips of his fingers would dig teasingly into the grill on his chest and tug at the bolted metal, would drag down the length of him and peel away the dark blue paint, leaving raked lines and shallow ridges in their wake. And Drift's legs, thinner than Optimus' arms... each limb would fit so easily in his grasp, his long digits curling firmly around armored thighs, perfect to drag his body forward and pry him open.

Because that's part of his appeal, what draws the stoic warrior into thinking of such distasteful things in his Commander's absence. Optimus' superior power, his ability to control it and maintain a level head even in the heat of battle; a kind of incredible will that deserves nothing short of the upmost respect.

And there's nothing Drift would love more than to experience that power, unhinged and unbridled.

His vents shutter with a heavy intake of air, and his internal fans kick on as his rapidly circulating coolant fails to bring his core temperature down. There's a desperate tremble in his overheated frame as interface protocols activate without his prompting, and he arches against the earth as his peds dig in and rip out mounds of brittle autumn grass.

He can almost feel Optimus' smooth palms sliding underneath him, cupping and squeezing his aft and drawing him closer, their interface panels connecting with the slow grind of metal against metal.

" _Sensei_..." Drift husks, and his legs bend and fall open without command, as wide as they would be if the large Prime were between them now, bowed over his prone form with a ped pulled over each hip strut. He could imagine it so visibly, the distant burn of his sturdy frame pressed between his legs, feeling intimately the way the Autobot Commander's form rumbled and shook with each intake of air, and the rush of heat as it's expelled over his body.

A last shutter, and the samurai's optics flicker off in surrender to his Leader's phantom touch. His next exhale is a cloud of steam through his expanding plates as he searches his processor for the right memories, retrieves every image he can and pieces then meticulously together into the perfect picture as his baser systems override and take over.

The conjured image has Drift's spark lurching in its chamber, his EM field fluctuating as if reaching out.

Optimus wielding that sword, optics flared bright and wild, and vents radiating with smoldering post-battle heat, the energy exuding from him so palpable that he can feel it still even in the remnants of a memory.

He arches up, helm tipping and rotors cutting through the soft earth as he finally reaches down, servos rubbing over the circular panel containing his phallus, and fingers curling down to tease over the divided metal cleft between his thighs, the first trickles of lubricant dripping over his - no-

 _Prime's_ fingers, so much larger than his own, easily coaxing out and wrapping around his erect phallus, taking up his entire length inside one great hand. Then a single digit equating to two of Drift's own, pressing between that cleft and deep into his lubricated chamber. He'd curl and twist, spreading his internal calipers and stimulating every node. Just the feel of him pressed inside, filling him so intimately, would have Drift's back struts curling back and reaching out for more, and Optimus would respond with an amused sound, finally pumping his fist up and down Drift's shaft and-

Drift seizes up, vents stalling and chassis shaking as that charge of heat quickly builds up inside, already burning his processor with that oppressive wanton heat as he recalls the Prime's face, optics narrowed, lip plates spread into that knowing smile...

" _D-dame_... _Dame_ -!"

Another finger quickly thrusts in, pressed firmly against the roof of his valve as he grinds down into the hand with a noise lost in static.

He overloads to the image of Optimus's hands curled tight around the hilt of his sword, imagining those same servos wrapped around him, _inside_ him, coated in his fluids as he finally reaches that high and comes down with his ventilation loud in his audials.


	4. Haiku (Bumblebee/Drift)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, it's not really. Like, only if you really squint. You can read it as gen or pre-slash maybe. I don't know. Whatever your preference, man. lol
> 
> But in other news: I should just make Drift's third alt mode a bike because he's quickly becoming my fandom-bicycle.
> 
> ~~meaning everyone's getting a ride~~

Neither of them knows where or when or even how it started - this little back and forth game of theirs - only where it's brought them now. Two differing forces flowing as a single trail of thought, with a single goal. A strange, almost cohesive harmony.

< _on top of the world - is where it is found_ >

Bumblebee pauses, clicking rapidly in an almost fidgeting manner as he searches through his processor for the correct bite to end his turn on.

< _the stuff that dreams are made of_ >

The yellow mech finishes with a flourish of hands and crosses his arms smugly over his chassis, the gleam of the sun catching his tilted helm just so to add to his cocky appearance, so proud of himself and of his latest piece. Drift smiles from his seated position on the ground, one sword laid across his lap as he runs his servo up the blade, inspecting it for damage when he knows there is none. His words come to him as effortlessly at his weapons swing in his hands during battle. Smooth and fluent.

"A nightmare of destruction upon many is still a dream to some."

There's an exasperated whirr of clicks and moans, and Bee's bright optics look like they are about to fall from his helm they've rolled so hard.

< _oh boy - we've got a pessimist_ >

Drift chuckles and he offlines his optics to embrace the silence, one that they easily fall back into while he waits again for the next verse to be spoken. For a while, the only noise to be heard is that of the wind whispering through the tall grass, and the distant crooning of birds echoing across the empty fields. But even without words, Drift can still sense the younger mech's rapid thoughts and counting beats, hearing them thrumming and loud as any sound the lively mech could ever produce, literally buzzing about like his namesake implies.

Instead of being annoying though... It's strangely comforting. Being near an enthusiasm so genuine, and without an eagerness for malicious or violent intent. He wouldn't go as far as to call it innocent or naive – he knows better now than to assume that of Bumblebee – but still it's... Refreshing. Especially when compared to the company he used to keep.

Bumblebee's radio tunes back in suddenly, breaking his thought processes before he can begin drifting too far back, into dark memories he'd rather leave and let lie. It's a welcome distraction.

< _why - fear nightmares when - the only thing we have to fear is... fear itself ?_ >

Drift smiles, and his optics flick back online.

"In the dim, fear breeds a willful ignorance more lethal than bullets."

< _f*ck you_ >

"You are fifteen short, Bumblebee."

< _shall I compare thee to a summer's day - ? neither are very pleasant_ >

Drift actually laughs at that, turning his wrist and sheathing his sword forcefully into the earth as he moves to stand. It's amusing, and strange. Because that there was once a time where he would lash out for such blatant mockery against his person. But now he's laughing at the absurdity of himself being compared to a summer's day at all. He'd been called a great many things he's sooner agree with. A piece of slag maybe. Definitely a glitch and a defect besides. But definitely not Summer.

He grabs the hilt and rips it out again, returning the blade to his back.

"Watch your tongue. The hasty bee stings only once before dying an untimely death."

Bumblebee bristles noticeably at that, wings flicking only briefly, and Drift can sense the agitation in his near static energy, the fluctuating frustration of not being able to voice exactly what it is going on inside his processor, not without his vocalizer. Certainly not within the constraint of seventeen syllabus either. And in this, Drift smirks.

Though the mock isn't detected in the tone he has no control over, Bumblebee more than makes up for it in his cocky stance that just exudes his arrogance.

< _only the fool - who so wants to - get stung - willingly disturbs - the hive_ >

< _is that it ?_ >

< _you wanna - get stung ?_ >

< _you feelin' lucky, punk ?_ >

< _come at me bro I'll throw down_ >

The yellow mech's fists are raised in a mockery of a fighting stance as a wrestling bell dings from his radio and an invisible crowd cheers, but there is no aggression to be seen. This break in verse merely sounded the wordless end to their game, that Bumblebee has lost his motivation to continue, and it's Drift's turn to flip his optics up to the sky, exasperated by the abrupt end, just when he was feeling the young mech's creative energies really starting to flow. He shakes his helm as he shoulders past the other 'bot, venting gently, but not in anger. The trail of thought is broken, and there is no need to continue when there is no desire to.

But to not respond now would be giving Bee the win.

And he just can't resist getting the last word in.

"Insufferable child, running when faced with the inevitable."

A swarm of angry beeps quickly comes rushing up behind him.

< _man you don't know the meaning of - **insufferable**_ >

Drift is momentarily taken aback hearing his own voice repeated back to him through the crackle of an over-used speaker, but a single moment is all Bumblebee needs to take advantage.

The next sound out of his vocalizer is a wrenched, undignified squawk as sharp fingers are suddenly jabbed into his side, between thick plates of protective metal, and into his cords.

"AGHH -- BUMBLEBEE!!"

He jerks away, clutching his side on instinct, only to have his other open side just as quickly assaulted with another sharp jab. He's tackled before he can so much as reach for his swords, chittering laughter filling his audials as yellow servos poke his helm and jab into his sides, ignoring his struggles and static-y shouts to cease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In _other_ other news: fuck writing haikus.


	5. Bonds (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found this written on my phone forever ago, and I guess I forgot about it. 
> 
> Megatron and Starscream's first encounter after not seeing each other for however many centuries Megs spent on ice inside a dam.
> 
> Maybe exhibitionism? Hard to say, since they aren't _technically_ having sex, but just in case. Exhibitionism.

He's never felt the draw this strong before. The tug on his spark sudden and strong, the signals overwhelming as they flooded his processor and forced him to land on a whim not his own.

Like he'd been commanded.

Starscream grits his denta at the thought of he, _the Leader of the Decepticons_ , being commanded by anything, especially something not even of a physical form; but he can't move or stray away from a path he's already started down. He'd given up control of the situation the moment he allowed himself to transform and touch down and fire that first rocket. Now, all that's left for him is to pace and wait for the warpath to clear, for the ice to break and the tyrant be freed, and for his long-held leadership to be sorrowfully stripped away...

Starscream watches from his perch atop the primitive structure as the humans speed away, the yellow Autobot flanked on all sides by defensive forces, and the cube in their possession. And he grudgingly lets them go.

A part of him demands that he follow the convoy, that he swoop in and rip both the spark and those meddling fleshlings out of that Autobot, and retrieve the Allspark for himself. But a larger part compels him to stay. Some reawakening protocol, some damned baser section of his code he'd long thought removed itself, that overrides any thought to pursue. 

He tries and tries to ignore it, to force it out of his processor and go, _now_ , while the humans are without any backup besides the one small Autobot scout and their own primitive weapons; but it's louder than his own voice, more authoritative than even he is able to rebel against. And he gives in to his own traitorous coding embarrassingly fast.

Let Barricade and Bonecrusher handle it, it reasons with him.

He is needed here.

 _Needed_.

Starscream tries to pass it off as the tiny bullets still ricocheting harmlessly off his armor, but the thought makes his frame shiver before he can stop it, whether he acknowledges it or not.

Thankfully, he isn't given long to dwell on it. Minutes later, he can feel that distinct rumble shake the foundation under his peds, the mighty roar echoing up from the very earth itself with a powerful boom that he hasn't heard in ages. And the force is like a jolt through his spark, and his processor shuts down. His talons dig into the concrete as he wriggles anxiously in place, his chassis thrumming with a building anticipation as he watches the tiny insects flee from their pitiful excuse of a prison, screaming. The ones firing at his peds stumble and fall over themselves as another quake shakes the ground, their guns clattering as they drop.

Then, it happens. The sonic boom of powerful thrusters igniting, launching forward, cutting through the air and racing for the surface; and Starscream can _feel it_ , the sensation of wind grazing his wings and lifting him up, stronger than any vibration. The force of it is a firm tug in his spark, tight like a fiercely closed fist, a massive lurch of energy from deep within his chest that's been absent from his being for far longer than he could ever fathom, and it's dragging him forward.

His engines prime without his knowing, that bubble of nervous energy coming to a crescendo as he unknowingly releases a shriek so loud, so high, it couldn't have been registered in organic ears. But the intended hears.

Megatron's alt form comes screaming around the bend mere kliks later, and Starscream's spark lurches forward again beyond his control, and he's falling before he can stop himself, shifting seamlessly and firing off to join the other in the air. Only to be ripped from the sky by the very mech he'd called for.

The last thing Starscream registers in his sights are the furious glowing embers of Megatron's eyes, before clawed servos are latching into his wings, and the force of impact knocks his vision offline.

When his sight returns in a flicker of static and warnings cluttering his HUD, he's met by the same image. Megatron above him, his helm framed by the blue sky of this alien planet, and the smoke from their landing billowing up around them.

The screams of the humans are all a distant noise. He can vaguely feel the jagged pieces of shattered concrete digging into his struts. If there were still shots ricocheting off him, he isn't aware. All he's capable of processing now is limited to the mech directly above him, staring at him with optics that pin him down just as much as the massive servos clutching his wings.

" _Starscream_..." The warlord rasps in a voice that's been without use for ages, and it's like something has blown inside him. His vents shutter as optics flicker over every part and panel as if to consume his image, and his claws curl into his wings with a dull pain that hardly even registers in Starscream's processor. Not even the pain of having had his thrusters forcefully melded back into his chassis when he'd collided with the ground is a blip on his receptors. All he's capable of feeling now is this. The presence of Megatron on top of him, the heat welling up in his core, the need radiating off him like its own palpable field.

The large mech growls again, low and possessive, as he leans down and buts their helms together with an unexpected noise that rattles his plating.

Starscream returns the gesture without hesitation, pressing their helms together in a scraping nuzzle and trilling somewhere in the back of his vocalizer as Megatron bites at his mandibles. Delicately, only enough to dent.

Starscream sneers to himself. It's almost tender.

There's a million different things that needed to be said, millions more that need to be done, but time or place have no meaning to them.

Megatron's chest cracks open only the slightest bit, but it's enough to trigger Starscream's own to part as well, empathetic reaction and instinct overriding, and his spark reaches out.

The meld is quick, only enough to rekindle and repair the bond weakened after centuries spent stretched thin and apart, but the warmth and energy spreading through him as their chests connect is more stimulation than the Seeker can take after centuries of _nothing_. His indignation melts.

Megatron's hold seems to loosen in those few seconds they're connected, as his very essence is pouring into his writhing Second, gripping his spark, holding it and tightening around it possessively. It might as well have been a warning, a threat not to move, not to fight this; but to Starscream then it feels almost sentimental. Like a caress over his spark chamber, soft static mingling with heavy friction across his twitching wings as Megatron's hands spread across each one. The closest thing he's ever gotten.

Starscream latches on to the larger mech's frame in attempts to ground himself, servos clutching the edges of his Master's spiked armor as his talon'd peds kick and rake across the ground, leaving deep gouges in their wake, but it's impossible. His vents hitch, and his vocalizer fails as his body tenses in pleasure.

If the pull had been strong then, it's absolutely suffocating now.

The residuals of their melding are still pulsing through Starscream's system when Megatron finally releases him, and that slight crack in his silver armor seals once again; hiding away his spark. 

Starscream quickly closes his own with a hiss, but it doesn't stop his fluctuating field from brushing with his Master's, fluttering and pulsating traitorously as it sends across his body's need for more. A deeper bond. A stronger one. Now.

And, like a single claw dragging across his chassis, he can intimately feel Megatron's lightly brushing back. A taunting promise. _Later_.

He stands with a growl building in his throat, and Starscream follows, feeling heavy and wobbling on his peds, but still finding the strength to stand; his helm still held arrogantly high, wings rigid and optics narrow, in spite of everything.

Yes, they would continue this later, he would see to that. After he retrieves _his_ cube.

He takes off before Megatron can command him to, spark whirling with renewed energy, and vicious intent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Spoilers, there is no later. lol~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> There is a part two on my phone as well, but I may not may not post it. Idk, it's even rougher than this one.


	6. Butting Heads (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Born from my need of more fluff for this ship, and my headcanon that Transformers don't/can't kiss. Because, honestly, Megatron doesn't even have lips.
> 
>  
> 
> _Starscream doesn't even have a proper mouth._

At first, Starscream doesn’t know what _this_ is. The feeling of Megatron’s spindly servo wound around his neck, mismatched and foreign as it were, is a familiar one, as is being cast in the shadow of his taller frame looming over him, serrated teeth bared and chassis rattling with his ill-contained growls. A wordless lunge for his neck has always been the mech’s preferred way of greeting his SIC, especially after a disaster that was or could be misconstrued as Starscream’s fault, and especially now.

But this time it’s _different_. And not just in that Starscream _hadn’t done anything_ this time; had only been going about his duties attending the hatchling pods when he was grabbed without warning, silenced and thrown into the nearest wall bare of pods, and his Master descended on him.

His spark still fluxes with remnants of that very same fear he’d felt when Megatron grabbed him the first time, only a short while ago when he’d returned from Earth; at once both reclaiming his leadership and throwing Starscream back in his place in one violent display. But that amounted fear is quickly being overwhelmed by the Seeker’s growing confusion.

The grip around his neck, firm and unwavering, isn’t as tight as it could be, the growls escaping his master’s vents not as threatening to his spark as they were then; even the press of his body is all too close. Close enough to suffocate, to intimidate and _crush_ , but close enough still that Megatron could not possibly strike him properly. _If_ that’s even what Megatron intends to do to him.

With a dreadful dip in his spark, Starscream begins to expect it’s not. 

He grabs the offending servo hanging him from the ground, claws digging in and pushing, as if he’s any hope of prying himself free from the other’s greater strength.

The soft sound of their helms connecting doesn’t even register in his processor until after the fact, when Megatron’s forehelm is resting against his own, and the shine of his optics are bathing his Master’s scarred face in a deep, glowing red.

Then, it all comes clicking into place; both the action and the sight making his spark flux again, but for an entirely different reason.

As the realization hits, his talons curl through the empty air beneath his dangling peds, and his servos do the same around the single one effortlessly holding him there. His vents hitch.

“My Lord–”

And Megatron squeezes, warning, threatening – the first time his grip has ever truly hurt since he’d grabbed him – and Starscream hisses in place of any words.

He’s so close, Starscream can feel the rumbled glyphs reverberating off his face when Megatron finally speaks. “ _Shut up_.”

A few kliks pass. Starscream doesn’t respond, doesn’t even nod. And the Decepticon leader rumbles his approval.

“Good.”

Still connected, their helms grind together, steel and bronze tones sparking at the contact as they scrape briefly before stilling again, pressed firmly together, both holding and neither backing down.

His spark flutters as the ones falling between them had, the short action not enough, not nearly enough, and Starscream dares to tilt his helm again after a few kliks have passed, igniting another brief rain of light in front of their optics. And, surprisingly, Megatron allows it, his optics shuttering with another rumbled noise as his servo loosens its hold around the air commander’s throat; and Starscream’s own trilling vocals soon join the steady thrum still emitting from his chest.

When he squeezes again, short and gentle, it’s less a threat than it is an encouragement to continue.

And Starscream obliges, drawing back only to firmly press their helms together again with a screech of scraping metal, happy to draw out this moment as long as he could.


	7. Marked (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, another revisit of the Nemesis scene instead of finishing rewriting the next chapter to my story.
> 
> [headdesk]

Before, he hadn’t been paying attention to his Second, let alone any cosmetic changes the Seeker may have made to his frame in the two years he was left trapped under the weight of Earth’s ocean. He’d only eyes to beat the other mech and remind him of his place before proceeding to his Master’s side and relaying him the demoralizing news. The chamber containing the hatchling pods hadn’t been particularly bright either.

And several breems later they aren’t any brighter, but even so, they do little to hide it now, now that he’s finally taken notice. If anything, the pulsating glow highlighting Starscream’s plating only serves to cast a spotlight across everything he’d missed during their encounter; bathed in hues of blue and the contrasting red of his own optics sweeping up and down the Seeker’s heavy frame.

The marks are thick and blocky – some sharp and angular, others curving in abstract waves – weaving across Starscream’s otherwise dull matte armor in jagged shapes, from his helm, down his chassis and thighs, and up again across the span of his wings.

They aren’t intricate, aren’t meant to be seen as this appealing. Some logical algorithm going on in the background of his processor blames his talk with the Fallen, that the promise and excitement of victory yet to come is merely projecting itself now on his Air Commander. But his foremost coding doesn’t care, for the logic, or whatever the tattoos true purpose may be. The lines curve and bend to every edge and angle so enticingly, this might as well be it.

“An interesting design.” Megatron rumbles from behind his SIC as his mismatched servo comes down on one wing to idly trace the shapes framing the Decepticon emblem welded there. Starscream doesn’t make a sound despite being snuck up on, or even a gasp at the sensation of a gentle touch across his wing, but the tremble of the plating under his claws is unmistakable. “Where did you get these, I wonder?”

“You’re _Master_ gave them to me.” Starscream responds as curtly as he dared to over his wing, not even turning to face and address him properly. The bitterness is poorly masked, as is his draw to the touch.

The revived Decepticon smirks knowingly.

Gripping the same wing, he slowly moves around the Seeker until he is finally facing him, with nowhere to advert his optics that isn’t on the Decepticon Commander. “You sound displeased, Starscream.”

Starscream bristles under his hand and his stare. Many things had to have been going through his processor, any number of snide remarks and sarcastic quips, eager to be heard, but the only glyphs that make it out his vocalizer are his usual submissive croons, echoing through the chamber alongside the quiet drips of fluid and chirps of the resting hatchlings. “Oh, no. It matters not what pleases _me_. Only what furthers our cause… and what the Fallen deems necessary.”

“You still do not like them.” Megatron counters, knowing it is the truth. Starscream’s avoidance of his last statement is proof enough, how he doesn’t defend the marks, how his wing has been subtly shifting in his grasp since the moment he grabbed it; and Megatron can feel it, the slight movement, the nick of his claws dragging over those very same marks, marring them, peeling and ruining the Fallen’s work. A silent, subtle act of defiance, so very like the cunning Seeker.

He isn’t in any place to chastise him though. Megatron is hardly the innocent party, not when he is getting just as much satisfaction from the defilement.

Attractive as they are… They are still marks left by another mech, marks that have gone unchecked in his absence, and that alone is enough to soil them now that he knows. Even if they were left by his Master, he can’t have that.

Starscream vents, and there’s a lighter hitch to the tone that almost sounds like a chuckle. He knows as much as well.

He releases Starscream’s wing, and for a brief moment confusion flashes in his Second’s optics as the released appendage flicks and moves, as if to chase after the touch. Megatron smirks, rumbling his approval at the unconscious action, but not returning it; instead, moving his servo forward, around, underneath his chin to tilt the Seeker’s helm back with a single digit. A mimicry of the very same action performed when they first reunited here. And, same as before, Starscream doesn’t fight it.

If anything, Megatron swears he can feel him leaning in to it as his optics, at last, focus on his; and they almost seem to smirk back.

His thumb curls over his Seeker’s chin, his grip firm, and the honed edge drags slowly over the lower plate, over one of the many dark lines adorning his face, and the black easily peels away in a thin gash to reveal the bronze underneath. He repeats the action, reveals even more, and Starscream coos.

“They really are terrible.” He finally admits with dampened vocals, optics dim and servos reaching out to him, stroking his arm and holding there with no intent of letting go.

Megatron doesn’t hesitate pulling the Seeker closer with his other arm, free servo returning to the other wing to hold him the same. Firm and unmoving. Even as the wing in his grasp starts to twitch and flutter.

“Then allow me to shape them into something more pleasing.” He growls, tightening both servos as their chests connect, and Starscream keens in response.

“If you insist, Master.”


	8. Legend (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try writing a not-so-nice interaction between them, and idk, mixed result? It's not very slashy, but I guess you can take an implication if you want.

The question comes unbidden, quick and bitter, acid raining across the floor. “Do you know what they’re beginning to say about you?”

‘ _They_ ’ of course meaning his soldiers, his army of loyal mechs eagerly awaiting the order to assault Earth, to repay the damages back in kind that the Autobots have dealt to their race. And he does know what they’re saying. And he _revels_ in it every time a part of it passes his audios.

“What do they say.”

But even more, he wants to hear the words spoken through Starscream’s himself.

The Seeker’s talons pause over his peds, sparing a vindictive look up at his seated Master before continuing his ministrations, plucking and scraping at the filthy organic material still stubbornly clinging to his treads, now dirtying his claws. Megatron can see the slight shaking of his helm as he resumes his work, sees the rigidness of the Seeker’s marked wings, and a smirk tugs at his mouth as he watches his Air Commander poised at his feet.

“You would know, _our mighty Lord Megatron_ ,” he starts with a hiss that is all venom, and the tyrant rumbles with hardly concealed pleasure, both at the claws cleaning him and the praise being muttered by the last mech anyone would expect, “who is so strong, so powerful, that it took the Allspark itself to extinguish your own. That the Autobots had to sacrifice an entire race in order to defeat you. And yet–”

“ _And yet_ ,” he leans forward in his throne, reaches out and jerks the Seeker’s helm up with a taunting claw under his chin, the motion almost tender, and the glow of his indignant optics are made that much brighter by his shadow cast ominously across his frame, “here I am, _alive_ , on my throne, and _you_ ,” the Seeker’s hisses turn to pain, gasping as his claw digs into the underside of his jaw, “brought to heel at my feet.”

He smirks down cruelly at the other squirming mech – the one who’d stood idly by, the one who’d left him to rust on that miserable planet, who’d tried to take that human child’s victory as his own, now reined in once more – and releases him with a flick of his finger.

He settles back into his throne with a rumble of content as those bright optics immediately turn down. “Everything is as it should.”

“The Autobots were fools to think you would be so easily deactivated.” Starscream quickly answers as he returns to his preening, wings wilted down in quiet submission. He won’t agaub speak out of turn for some time, at least until the Seeker’s ever persistent ego repairs itself, however long that shall take this time.

For now though, Megatron smirks victoriously at the quiet that settles across his throne room, the only sound being the steady scrape and click of Starscream’s claws digging between his treads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm just now noticing I've yet to post any legit smut between these two.
> 
> That needs to change.


	9. Untitled (Barricade/Frenzy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't knoooooooooooow

The stoic face had been more intimidating than any glare he could have leveled his way, the critical red optics of the communications officer seeming to stare right through him, into his chassis, and into his recoiling spark. As if sizing him up, calculating the perfect angle with which to lunge forward and rip the chamber from his body, for just daring to stand in front of him. It was only his knowledge that he was needed alive and functioning that had made Barricade hold his ground, knowing that he was to be sent to the unknown planet as soon as he left this room, and with whatever Soundwave had to give to him in his possession.

Barricade hadn’t known exactly what he’d done to deserve such a terrorizing experience from the Decepticon third in command, bordering on hostile, but he suspects now the very reason had been in front of him the whole time, and hasn’t left his side since.

 

“B-B-Barri-c-c-c-c–!”

A series of sharp and rapid clicks assaults his audios, pitched high and whining and ringing through his processor, as two sets of tiny servos claw at his helm. They grasp the sharp angles of his crests, grip the back of his head, wrapping around and holding tight and digging in as far as the weak limbs can manage; but not to push their assailant away. 

The tiny chassis thrums and trembles, little fans whirring to their maximum effort inside the small being, and Barricade grins as he nuzzles again into the heated metal arching so firmly against his touch, sparking erratically with every pinched wire and gently bitten edge. His glossa licks up the divided seam of the tiny mech’s chest, slow and unhurried, where all the heat and static energy is slowly building to a completion inside his partner, and his own servos have to tighten around the flailing body to keep Frenzy from shoving himself away from the touch he’s so thoroughly enjoying.

His claws curl tightly where they’re wrapped around Frenzy’s convulsing body, sharp tips digging up and down the small infiltrator's struts to hold him steady, while his thumbs rub idly over his burning chassis, currents of electricity left sparking in their wake that he eagerly licks up.

“O-oh-Barr-d-don-tsssst-Pri-mus-p-p-plea-ssssyesyesyes–!” Frenzy’s tiny vocalizer breaks off into another line of unintelligible clicks as Barricade's tongue dips into his chest, laves over the tiny mechanisms inside and tastes the sharp burn of excess charge on his glossa, just aching for release, and his own moans vibrate into the thin metal holding it all in. His servos tighten as his fangs catch on sinuous cables, mouthing at wires and sucking them into his mouth as heat and electricity bathe across his face in continuous palpable waves, each pulse coming harder and faster than the last until he can't tell them apart. Above him, he hears as Frenzy's vocalizer resets uselessly again and again, spitting nonsensical sounds as his body continues to thrash in the larger con’s grasp.

Until he's tensing, curling forward in a bow over his head; his arms wound tight around his helm, peds kicking and scrambling against his chest, mandibles flicking with pleasure as only more static follows, until he's arching back with a cry lost in feedback.

The overload is small, a slight burst of energy that archs between them and chases across Barricade’s frame like a tiny zap of energy that diminishes before it can even reach his spark, but to Frenzy it must have felt like a star going nova. His thin silver frame goes limp in his grasp not a moment later, the smell of charged air and burning circuitry thick in Barricade's olfactory sensors.

 

Barricade wills himself not to think again of Soundwave’s face; of that cold, calculating look as he came up with the quickest, efficient, but surely no-less painful way to rend his spark from his body; a move, he realizes now, the communications officer had devised for such a situation if he harmed his symbiote, or failed to protect him as is part of his mission parameters. And Barricade doesn't doubt "interfacing with Frenzy" is included on that unofficial list as well.

Instead, he focuses on driving, on the odd comforting silence filled by the quick and frantic typing happening in his passenger seat, as Frenzy resumes his information gathering on the patrol car's computer; three servos on the keys, while the fourth strokes his dashboard in appreciative, purring motions.


	10. Designation (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like to think about Megatron thinking about things being back to the way they were, before the war, but yknow only with Starscream being there too. Though... I guess he wouldn't be an Air Commander then.
> 
> Wasn't he just like a school teacher or something in this continuity? lol All I know is that he was apparently leading a field trip or something the first time he and Megatron met...

His optics slowly power off as he lowers his helm down to his mate’s upturned face, pressing their forehelms together as their claws curl around the others' armor, and their hips move flush together. They rock into each other, metal grinding against metal as he ruts between his thighs and Starscream’s vocalizer leaks static and half-formed glyphs near his audios. Praises, pleas, and meaningless tones, all mingling with the sound of strained metal as taloned peds scrape across the berth.

Megatron hones in on that, focuses and loses himself in the pleasure of having that frame beneath him, those servos clutching his arms and the slick drag of valve walls gripping his spike as he finally thrusts deep, and the rest falls away. The dark metal walls, the hum of the ship’s machinery, the caress of radar and artificial gravity, all of it wiped clean; the seeker writhing in his clutches is the only thing left.

The rest he fabricates; a new berth, soft and padded, white walls and warm decor, illuminated by light streaming through high windows, the banners strung up on the walls no longer those of the Decepticon emblem.

“Master–”

“My designation,” Megatron rumbles, and pulls Starscream’s hips into another rough thrust that sheaths him to the hilt, and has the seeker crying into the cables of his neck, “is  _High Protector_.”

Starscream _keens_.

“Y-yes, oh glorious H-High Protector…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANYWAY.


	11. Creator (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four drabble things that kinda go together. The first two were originally posted to my tumblr, but the versions here are written in different tenses so they can go with the last two I just wrote.
> 
> No warnings, just some slight mechpreg stuff. That's pretty normal.

As their first cuts its way out of the pod and tumbles into Starscream’s awaiting servos in a flood of diluted fluid, wet and gurgling and clearing its vents for its first draw of cooling air, a timer starts ticking in Megatron’s head.

Watching Starscream coo and wiggle his claws over the chirping– _snarling_ –little thing, Megatron thinks it won't be long. Every mech knows about seekers, about their most base of programming, and the known triggers for it. It isn't a myth or rumor, or even a generalization of the seeker frame type as a whole; it's simple fact, set into their very history ever since their creation. Starscream has always been called glitched though, even by his own wing mates, and because of this, for a while, Megatron had his doubts that the same would hold true for his second.

But watching the seeker before him coddle their little creation, nuzzling the small being, heedless of the mess still clinging to its frame and blowing into its chassis to help clear the airways, Megatron knows that he is just like the others, and it won’t take long before Starscream is asking for more of the little things to hold and spoil.

 

He blends in very well, the dull matte of protoform grey lightening effortlessly to match his own armor, until the little hatchling becomes just another silver plate adorning his chassis, indistinguishable from the rest. Sometimes, Megatron forgets the little one is even there himself, clinging to his chest, even with claws hooked and anchored firmly into his very wiring, even as he steadily drinks in the energy from his sire’s spark, the comforting pull of symbiosis casting a soothing lull on his systems, until he starts to sag in his throne, optics distant as he lingers on the edge of recharge.

That is, until the little one takes those sharp fangs and starts to painfully nibble at his armor, and the very mech he’d inherited them from can only growl and rend the armrests under his servos as he tries to ignore it; all while blocking out the knowing snickers of its smug carrier.

 

"He needs a designation."

Megatron makes a noncommittal noise, but otherwise says nothing. His optics remain trained on his mate's chassis, but not a bit of that focus is set on the seeker's words.

He can't help but observe the hatchling as he feeds, clinging to the armor directly over the other mech's hidden spark, drinking in steadily his carrier's energy, just as he'd done with his sire; the greedy leach. He doesn't move, hasn't moved from the spot since latching there several breems ago; but occasionally his peds will twitch where they're locked in to Starscream's body, the silver barbs of tank treads hidden underneath his plates gleaming slightly at they subtly move, and he'll mewl. Tiny, contented noises, softly trilling into Starscream's armor.

Starscream trills back too, quietly, almost as if the response was not of his own volition as he touches the interlocking plates running down the hatchling's hunched back with absentminded strokes; and Megatron can only watch, transfixed, as he takes in both carrier and creation.

"Would Clutch suffice, Master...? Until something more fitting is chosen?" Starscream asks, and the words sound worlds away, almost becoming lost to him as well as he watches the new spark bury his helm between the cleft dividing the seeker's chest with a tired whirl of its vocals, and Starscream's larger servo comes down to gently cradle it closer in his claws.

It turns, just the smallest fraction, but it's enough for Megatron to catch the glint of a crimson optic peaking over a rounded shoulder, staring right back at him through wide hatchling lenses, the calmed beat of its spark visible in its dimly pulsing optics.

His own spark pulses back at the sight, filling him with an odd longing. "It will do."

 

His servo passes over and lingers on top of the seeker's hidden spark chamber, savoring the thrumming pulse of nervous energy as it vibrates up the tips of his claws, then drags down his chest. He dips into exposed seams, strokes and plays with the broad and many intricate pieces that make up his mate's chassis, before stopping lower on his body. Slightly below his middle, near the top of his canopy, tinted glass catching the glow of his crimson optics.

Starscream's shifting can't be ignored. He knows exactly where he's stopped.

Megatron leans over regardless, pressing his servo gently on the spot, rubbing in what could have been a soothing manner were it from any other mech; reverent, almost. Instead, it only makes the seeker twitch more as the warlord pets where his protoform is thickest under his armor, then lowers his helm and replaces those claws with fangs, mouthing gently at warm metal and nuzzling the pliant frame.

The frame that had built their creation, had carried it, strengthened it, gave it life and gave it to him.

He starts moving lower.

"My Lord?"

"Quiet." Megatron growls, but without his usual force. There is no malice in his words, only a reverent hum as one servo raises to take up where he left off, and his mouth goes lower still. "Allow me to show my respects."

Starscream doesn't say anything else, only gasps a sharp intake of air as fangs descend upon his uncovered valve, and a thick glossa licks a wet path up his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also have another thing like this in the works, only it's more focused on the actual "pregnancy" part, and is more just me trying to make sense of the whole pod situation and how that comes to be. It's like a step-by-step from conception to "birth" with some angst thrown in. Kinda on the fence about posting it though, so if that sounds like something you'd be interested in let me know.


	12. What even (Starscream/Blackout, Barricade, implied others, wtf)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hooooo boy... Compared to the Drift/Optimus thing I posted a bit ago, which was originally going to be much shorter and posted here, _this one_ was originally intended to be much longer and posted as its own thing. But I lost interest in the idea and eventually forgot where I was even going with it. So here's a kind of short Starscream/every Decepticon from the first movie... thing. Warnings include the dreaded heat cycle trope, non-con, and general Decepticon assholeishness.
> 
> Takes place immediately after the events of the movie in an AU where none of them die, just retreat after the cube's been destroyed somehow, in true G1 Decepticon fashion.
> 
> And they have a ship, apparently. ~~Like I said I don't remember what the fuck I was doing writing this, it was just sitting in my drafts, untouched, and I felt the need to update this thing with something.~~
> 
> ~~It's porn for the sake of porn don't question it.~~

His optics keep flicking down to his servos wringing together anxiously in his lap and then up again to the portal just across the room, eyeing the closed entryway like a depleted mech eyes a cube of life saving energon; so close, but left dangling just out of reach. The temperature in the room has been steadily climbing since he walked in and sat himself at the large table by his Master’s side for another one of Megatron’s drawn out rants, this one eons overdue while he's been trapped in ice, and his plating _burns_ with the added stress it places on his tired frame. He can feel his wiring crackling under the surface with the strain of excess energy racing through his system with nowhere to go, alerts pinging up on his hud that he stubbornly ignores, and the implications are there, he knows what it is, but like every time before he refuses to acknowledge it.

Starscream’s servos clutch around each other as he shifts fitfully in his seat, adjusting and willing himself not to make a sound as his internals clench. But there’s no relief to be had. Every move only serves to drag it closer to the surface, amounting inside him, building and making his claws _tremble_.

He grits his jaw.

No. Not now, not now.

He needs water. Coolant. Anything to stave it off.

“Excuse me.” He makes a move to stand, but a massive servo clamps down his broad shoulder and abruptly stops him.

“This meeting is not over yet! Be seated!” His Master’s command snaps over his helm, growling down at him ominously like a threat should he have the gull to disobey him here, in _his_ war room, in front of their subordinates. Starscream’s sights briefly flicker in their direction, to the four other Decepticons taking up space at the wartable; all burnt, dented, and singed, indignant rage still burning bright in their optics, and with all four pairs looking right back at him.

He shakily lowers himself back into his seat, stopping himself before he can whimper as Megatron’s clawed hand finally wrenches away and releases him.

“ _As I was saying_ …”

Starscream can’t bring himself to focus on the words leaving his Master’s vocalizer as he starts to speak and pace the room again. He already knows what those words have to be: scoldings, reprimands, a list of every way they failed on Earth to retrieve the cube, and why it’s all because of _their_ incompetence that they lost this day. And it doesn’t make it any easier for Starscream to even _try_ to listen anymore. He doesn’t need the shame or the false accusations or wrongly dealt blame. Not with the burning in his chassis steadily returning, the touch of his Master enough to quell the fires for all of the few kliks he held him, but now it’s coming back with a vengeance. Hot, unbearable, stoked by unknowing servos and now demanding to be sated.

His composure breaking, Starscream suddenly doubles over in his seat, curling in on himself and pressing the heated plate of his brow to the cool surface of the wartable with a hiss. He struggles to control the desperate keen bubbling up in his throat as his stiffened wings perk and twitch beyond his command, sending signals no mech in the room could hope to understand.

Inside him he can feel it, his overheated internals clenching and aching, the calipers in his valve spiraling down on nothing, and the frustration finally comes to its breaking point as a drop of lubricant drips down between his legs.

“Do you smell that?”

He hadn’t noticed the room go silent, but as Barricade’s voice reaches his audios, deafeningly loud in the still silence of war room, the reality finally comes crashing back on him. Starscream offlines his optics, focusing now on forcing his body to calm down, but none of his commands are heeded.

The call has finally taken him, the need to create overriding any and all attempts to abort the breeding protocols as they all start to initiate one by one, lighting up his interface array with jolts of arousal and need; and with the presence of so many virile specimens to satisfy it, it engages all the sooner.

His internal fans kick on, and the low noise that leaves his vocalizer is closer to a broken, choked off whimper than anything else.

“Primed seeker.”

“Primus. It smells _so frelling good_.”

The words are growled, so much closer than the others, and Starscream’s optics online with a startled flash just as a quick servo grips the back of his neck, pinning his head down to the table.

Starscream manages to turn his helm in that tight grip just enough to look up over the arch of his wings and see the sharp angles of Blackout’s face, thick frame looming over him, optics gone dark with intent.

His wings rattle despite himself. An open invitation.

“Hmm, it’s cruel to let a seeker in heat suffer.”

“Cruel that we have to suffer his smell.”

“The ugly glitch deserves worse.”

“The meeting…”

There’s a beat of hesitation, one that leaves Starscream teetering on the tips of his claws as he waits for his Master to voice his disgust or amusement, and either order the helicopter away or condemn Starscream to his fate.

But none of those things happen, and instead he’s being tugged up out of his seat by that same hand wound around the scruff of his neck, and all the lubricant that had accumulated in his valve is suddenly trickling across his seat and the floor as he’s forced to stand. The joints in his legs tremble awkwardly underneath him as he’s tugged away in a daze to the other end of the table, where he’s able to catch a glimpse of the other three Decepticons–Barricade, Brawl, Bonecrusher–every pair of bright red optics trained on him with a different kind of heat, before he’s shoved down, bent over the table with his helm roughly pinned once more to the surface, and his aft thrust up on display.

He can hear the four mechs groan at the sight of his bared inlet, lubricants freely dripping down soft metallic mesh and the backs of his thighs. His panel had been embarrassingly blown away during the battle when one of the human’s jets fired at him mid-transformation and broke off several smaller pieces of his armor, including the cover to his interface array. A minor injury all things considered, one that he’d planned on seeing repaired after Megatron chewed them out on their failure.

All the better for them, it would seem, as two long claws push at his dripping inlet and sink easily inside his valve.

Blackout moans above his prone frame. “Such a greedy thing. A primed up seeker so desperate for a thick spike to fill him up.”

“He’d probably beg for it.” Brawl rumbles, and they all laugh.

Starscream doesn’t have the processing power left in him to feel humiliated by the statement. He can only recognize it as the truth as he shoves back on those wickedly crooked fingers, whining low in his throat, wings flaring and twitching insistently as he tries to entice the mechs surrounding his aft.

“Just… get on with it!” The command comes out more like a plea than he intends, pitched high and needy, but none of them pay his words any mind. They merely chuckle, and Bonecrusher’s disgusted sneer can be heard above all others. “ _Pathetic_.”

But now there’s more hands on him reaching between his legs and stroking through the lubricants streaking down his thighs, spreading open the dark lips of his valve, harsh pincer-like fingers pinching the small node at the crest of his inlet and making him yelp as he jolts against the table’s edge. He tries to move but Blackout’s servo remains a solid weight on his neck, keeping him firmly pinned in place as his fingers thrust shallowly inside him. They tease and prod, hooked tips scraping just barely over the sensors lining his slick valve and making him arch with a weak moan.

When they suddenly disappear he almost cries to have them back, but the sound of clashing metal and warning growls ( _mine first_ ) silences him. Panels shift, and the tapered tip of an extended spike is grazing over his entrance, nudging between and spreading his folds, and has his sparkpulse sputtering in his chest.

Blackout’s hips buck forward with a deep shuttering growl, and Starscream’s head jolts off the table as that thick spike is buried inside him in one, sharp thrust. He gasps aloud, feeling his rim stretching around that long tapered length, and his talons scramble across the smooth surface as a quick pace is immediately set. No foreplay, no teasing, just the baser code to take and breed.

“Frag his aft.”

“Jack that annoying glitch full, Blackout.”

Starscream can hear the wet sound of the mech between his thighs, the reverberating clang of hips slamming against his aft as he’s roughly taken over the wartable by one of his subordinates while the rest make pleased noises behind him, and his face burns with the humiliating heat of five sets of optics staring openly at his most intimate parts, watching and reveling in the absolute image of desperation he makes impaled on Blackout’s spike and writhing underneath him.

But at the same time, his body thrums from the treatment, valve griping at Blackout’s spike while his vocalizer hiccups between moans and gasps as his crooked legs unconsciously spread wider. Even more than the humiliation, he can feel the heat of satisfaction burning through his lines at having his needs so aptly met; bent over, his valve stuffed full, eager to be filled and bred by these virile mechs. He needs their spikes, needs to have his chamber pumped full of their fluids, and they need him just as badly.

He can feel each of their fields pulsing and flaring around him, just as affected by the call as the seeker himself, and just as enthusiastic to answer it.

Starscream presses his face into the table and groans somewhere deep and primal as Blackout’s spike hits the roof of his valve, just barely scraping by the second inlet leading into his gestation chamber, and his stretched lining cycles down even tighter as his system is triggered into his first overload.

Even as his valve clenches him, tight enough to draw him deeper and hinder his movements, the helicopter continues to buck and grind against his aft, chasing after his own overload and flooding his valve with warmth as he spills his transfluid directly into his chamber.

“How does it feel?” Barricade purrs over the noise of their vents, and Starscream can barely see the smaller mech out of the corner of his unfocused sights, form hunched and optics flared bright as he eyes where the two are connected.

“Tight.” Blackout groans, the smirk evident in his voice as his claws flex tauntingly around his neck and rocks into the still clenching heat of his valve. “Wants it so badly, he overloaded and opened his chamber. Let me right in. Primed creature.”

Seemingly satisfied he won’t move Blackout finally frees his neck and moves both servos down to grip his hips. Starscream doesn’t even try to lift himself and prove the other wrong, just keeps his claws anchored where they’ve managed to dig gouges into the table, and allows his body to be rocked with each broken thrust.

It takes several seconds before his chamber closes back, sealed and holding its collected prize, and his calipers finally release the mech's spike.

As soon as Blackout’s weight leaves his body though another weight is quick to replace him, pressing right up between his dirty thighs and teasing the rim of his abused valve with the thick blunted tip of his spike. And Starscream is all too eager to receive him.

“Make an attempt not to harm him.”

His optics fly open, and Starscream glances to the side to at last see the Decepticon leader standing at the head of the table, expression unreadable as he watches his second in command about to be mounted and filled again. He'd almost forgotten he was even there; he’d made no move to stop his mechs earlier, hasn’t said a word yet to call them off, and doesn't look like he will now. Starscream’s spark lurches in his chest, thinking he’s saving the order for once they’ve all taken him, so the warlord can have him last. When the others have already fucked the others' seed out of him, and his gestation chamber will open to even the slightest brush at his valve; the most optimal condition to keep filling him up and ensure the nanites take.

It’s not a comforting thought, not with Barricade’s sadistic laugh directly behind him as the smaller Decepticon slicks himself in his lubricants, but it makes his valve clench with another surge of arousal nonetheless. 

 _Megatron_ ; strong, powerful, the highest ranking mech in their hierarchy; the ideal sire. _And he's flight capable_.

The next groan out of him is pitched too low to be of pleasure, instead sounding his disappointment as a spike that _isn't_ his Master's rubs across his inlet.

“An attempt will be made,” the mech mutters darkly, a secretive smirk sounding clear in his laugh as he slowly sinks his spike inside, uncaring to the sounds he makes.


	13. Fire in the sky (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm still writing little snippets of random shit between working on my major WIPs, and this happened. Not really my best, and full of some pretty tongue in cheek lines that amuse me, but it needed to be done.
> 
> Only major warning is for Megatron being a possessive little bitch and totally enforcing the abusive megastar stereotype at the first sign of competition. And a post-ROTF au that I don't really explain. Also I added a character that doesn't belong in Bayverse. oops

" _Skyfire_!"

Megatron does not like the particular gleam that flashes across his second’s optics, and he likes even less the tone that sparks in his vocalizer as he takes several stuttering steps forward, teetering on the tips of his claws as he moves toward the glacier of melting ice taking up space in the Victory's loading bay; ice from the polar caps that most certainly  _did not_ hold the cargo of the crashed ancient Cybertronian ship they were expecting, not that the Seeker seems to notice, or even care. His voice is high and ecstatic and full of such pleased relief as he eyes the mass of ice, his keens all too close in range to the same pleasured sounds the Seeker had been making for him only a few kliks ago while impaled on his spike, before they were interrupted and called from his quarters by a frantic com from their excavation crew. Only this time it’s not his designation he’s gasping, but that of this frozen husk of a mech before them.

“You know him?” Megatron prods while he frowns at the derelict Cybertronian, plates grayed by time and worn down to his protoform by the ice still encasing his large body. Though, _large_ doesn't quite do it justice. He’s broad and tall, tall enough that if he were propped up on his peds and not sprawled across the ground in a pool of chipped and partially melted ice, he would have undoubtedly towered over the Decepticon Lord by several meters; but that said nothing of the wings mounted on his back, those slabs of metal directly proportional to the rest of his bulk, and _massive_ , branching out so far that things had to be moved around to avoid accidentally crushing them. Their combined breadth is almost as long as Megatron is tall.

Indeed, if he were online, this carrier class mech would have cast an intimidating shadow, and held an equally impressive air.

And Starscream apparently _knows_ him.

Starscream turns back to him after issuing his orders in Megatron's stead for the drones to resume where they’d left off thawing out the body; it doesn't matter if it isn't the weapons cache they were looking for, he wants it done, and he wants it done now, quickly. His optics are bright–too bright–when he meets his Master's sights, and his claws tremble with excited energy where they’re wringing habitually together in front of him, like he can't wait to get his servos on his body.

The sight of this–offline, descended, grey abandoned lifeless– _frame_ evoking such a reaction from his Seeker has the warlord growling in ill-concealed contempt. 

"I–yes, I knew him long ago, when I was still in training at the academy. We worked closely together and..."

And? _And_? Megatron doesn't like that either. Doesn't like the many thoughts and implications that are immediately summoned up to the forefront of his processor, save for one tempting idea; shoving this slab of ice and metal out of his ship and letting it sink to the bottom of whatever ocean they were currently over.

"He disappeared during an expedition off-world long before the war. I didn't believe he'd simply offlined, but I never would have thought–"

That information is enough for him. Megatron mutes his second's chatter and turns his optics back on the still mostly frozen mech, his dirtied white helm and most of his upper body being the only parts completely freed, and the rest quickly underway with the drones working fast under the looming threat of their Air Commander's ire. His optics are dark though, and his mouth hangs slack in a forever frozen grimace of pain, splotched in rust and salt erosion. He looks, by all accounts, long gone; a pointless waste of time and resources to even bother uncovering him. But even the least intrusive of scans quickly picks up the faintest trace of spark energy inside him, stubbornly clinging to life.

For naught though. For all the millennia it held on, that stubborn spark ceases to pulse _today_.

"Master...?" Megatron doesn't realize how fiercely his brow had lowered in his glare, or how tightly his servos had clenched at his sides, until he feels the barest touch of palliating claws stroking down his arm, light and cautious, trying to coax him out of it. He rips his burning optics away from the dead mech's face and sets them instead on the far more appealing sight of Starscream, form hunched and wings slightly dipped in subservience, trying to make himself appear small and appease him.

 _Good_ , he thinks. Even if it's painfully routine, the weak groveling to incite his more merciful side, instead of the more enjoyable means of intercession Starscream has fallen into these past several cycles by offering up himself; but at least he's no longer focused on _Skyfire's_ corpse. He's looking up at him expectantly, all his focus back where it should, and all the warlord wants now is to get him back to his quarters and resume where they'd left off, with the Seeker bent over his desk and mewling his designation. He's feeling keyed up after watching such a dramatic shift in Starscream's attentions, and he is more than ready to stake his claim anew in lieu of having to stand before this rusted mech any longer.

Starscream inches a little closer, still tentatively touching his arm, and Megatron's mouth plates twitch back in something that's more a leer than a smile.

"I-I know it's not the cargo you were expecting, but... if we can get him online again, he could prove useful..."

Whatever it was, it quickly vanishes back into a snarl the moment those words leave the Seeker's mouth, and Starscream flinches away as if the sound were a reeling punch itself. Any drone that hadn't been diligently working before quickly moves then, skittering to escape the tyrant's building rage, and to remove themselves from the inevitable blast zone.

"What use would I have of a _shuttle_?!" Megatron spits the word, his armor puffing out as he raises to his full height above the skittish Seeker, until his frightened optics are glowing brighter than before in his looming shadow. "May I remind you that we have a _ship_. We don't need _transport_. You don't need _him_." He doesn't bother to backtrack and correct himself for those few slipped words that so painfully give himself away, because even now Starscream is still glancing back feebly at Skyfire, processor still stuck on that damn chunk of ice more than he is on his Commander and Master, and it's the most infuriating thing he's seen, worse than any act of quiet treason his second has committed in the past. He's never felt this before, never had a reason to; but he does now, and its name is Skyfire. And he _hates_ it.

He contemplates ordering Starscream away, back to his suite where Megatron is quickly deciding he should remain until this thorn in his side has been properly disposed of (see: shoved out of his ship and sunk to the bottom of the ocean), and it's almost too good a mental image to pass up. The conquering of an adversary before going back to take what's his. He couldn't think of a better feeling.

He takes one step forward, wholly intent on doing just that.

"But he's not just a shuttle!" But Starscream quickly defends himself, _and that frelling mech_ , as he at once intercepts his steps with raised servos and a fast pleading voice. "Master, please, listen to reason. Back on Cybertron he was a scientist of irrefutable prestige, with several patents linked to his name, and so many of his schematics went missing along with him, no known mech has been able to replicate what he's done. Everything he'd accomplished in his time was lost! But having him here now, in the middle of a war, where a new weapon could make the difference! it makes him _invaluable_!"

Startscream pauses, and the force behind his last shout is still ringing around them, still echoing across Megatron's snarling face, and the Seeker quickly realizes his error before the warlord can even reprimand him himself. Megatron continues to glower down at him as his wings drop even lower and his helm inclines to the floor, no longer meeting his optics as his whole frame tenses for the coming blow. The only sounds in the bay are of the drones tireless working, chipping and scraping away in a rain of shredded ice across the floor.

It's stupid how he pauses there. He should just order Starscream out. Then, once he's gone, be rid of the body without having to deal with his second's interference any longer.

"Lord Megatron please, I... His genius is all the reason to revive him."

His servos tighten.

Loath as he is to admit it though, there is a validity behind Starscream's reasons. They are painfully short of processors with all their facilities in working order; they couldn't be harmed by adding a mech to their ranks who could actually use their's. And, if what Starscream says is true, Skyfire _would_ prove to be an invaluable asset if he did posses such information for a tide turning weapon. And, if he oversteps his narrow bounds with Starscream, Megatron can always turn the weapon on him. Which, now that he thinks of it, would be exponentially more satisfying than merely shoving his already stasis-locked body out of his ship.

Still, that doesn't mean he has to like it.

He growls. "How can you be certain he'll work under my command?"

He doesn't miss the way Starscream's frame visibly relaxes under his less-violent tone, and his optics raise once more, not quite meeting his again, but not trained on the rivets in the floor anymore.

"I was his friend." He assures, in a manner that does quite the opposite in Megatron's mind. "I can convince him to work for your cause." More of those earlier thoughts get dragged forward, images of this hulking carrier walking around with Starscream glued at his hip strut, taking his second's attentions without effort, and taking him as well, but they are stubbornly shoved away before Megatron can lose himself again to that strong emotion that has just as much control over his spark as his anger and lust for power. He forces himself to think of the possibilities instead, of finally getting the upper hand on this planet, of decimating the Autobots and watching the Prime's frame grey for a second time. And this time, he assures, he'll stay that way.

"Fine then." Megatron huffs and the tips of Starscream's wings perk up, the tops peeking over just visible from behind his chassis, and very telling of his excitement at hearing his approval. "We'll defer to Scalpel's judgement on his condition and the possibility of reactivating him, after he'd been thawed." The words taste bitter saying them, but the pay off turns out to be sweeter as the Seeker straightens back to his confident posture, and his hands are once more back to eagerly wringing, claws clinking together in that familiar way. It makes Megatron's mind lapse just long enough that, by the time his thoughts have been reeled back in, he's looking at the Seeker's retreating back as he slowly moves over to inspect Skyfire's body. He scowls. " _Starscream_."

The other mech freezes mid-stride, and those tempting wings perk again, this time in caution, and he quickly wheels back around to look at him. "Yes Master?"

"We're not finished talking." Megatron rumbles, and takes his own secret pleasure in seeing how the Seeker reacts to his voice, wings remaining perked in interest while the rest of him lowers in a different kind of submission. One that's well practiced and has his unsatisfied spike pressing against its housing, eager to have his Seeker back around him. "Return to my quarters so we can continue discussing the _terms_ of your friend's reactivation."

His optics cycle only a fraction wider, but by the subtle shift of his frame Megatron can tell that he understands; that there's nothing left for them discuss. Nothing but their unfinished business from earlier that he obviously still feels aching in his valve. He's shifting and moving around almost nervously, and he glances back at the still frozen frame, but for once Megatron doesn't feel the anger from before bubble up. He smirks as those bright red optics snap back to him after hardly a second of broken contact, and Starscream briskly nods.

"Of course... my Lord Megatron."

Starscream walks away, his wings hiked high and servos clasped behind him and, as he passes by, Megatron can feel the tremble in his field as it brushes by. Reserved, but expectant.

His optics trail after his retreating frame, watching the tilt of his wings and the gait in his step, waiting until Starscream is out of range before he turns around on the drones who immediately cower at having their Lord's full and undivided attention aimed at them.

"Unless that piece of tin spontaneously reanimates," he snarls, low and threatening, " _don't disturb me_."

He doesn't wait for their stuttered confirmations before stalking off in the direction his second had taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Plot twist Starscream is a dirty fucking liar and knows damn well Skyfire doesn't have schematics in his head for a weapon, he wouldn't even know how to build one, he's a fucking xenobiologist, hahaha~~  
>     
> Oh, I did some numbers or whatever trying to think exactly how big Skyfire might be in this verse, and G1 is total shit at maintaining size continuity, but Starscream there generally fluctuates between being half and three-fourths Skyfire's height. With Starscream in the movies being canonically 31 feet tall, that puts Skyfire anywhere between... 40 and 50 feet, and so I'm setting a comfortable number at 45. That seems reasonable
> 
> And Megs is only 33 feet. And officially no longer the biggest bot in Starscream's life. RIP Megatron's ego. X


	14. Sweet Moments (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabbles that came from an ask meme on dumblr.

Slow Dancing

His claws slot easily into the gaps in his armor, curling in and holding fast as he presses close to his chest, until there are only inches between them. For lack of anywhere else to go, his own settle on his upper arms, grasping the Seeker to him in a grip that is both surprisingly gentle, but bears no intentions of releasing him again any time soon.

It’s been a millennia since he’s last done this, and it clearly shows in his less than impressive shuffling as he moves to synch his unsteady steps to the old static laden song, his processor being slow on the uptake and only faintly recalling the proper technique, but Starscream’s own lack of practice makes up for it. He’d said so himself, he’s never done this before, dancing as grounders do on their feet rather than in the air; but he wants to now, and he wants Megatron to show him.

So he clings wordlessly to his chest and allows Megatron to led in their slow step and turn about his quarters, following his direction without complaint. He only hums, his helm tucked up against the side of his neck where the lilting tone of his voice vibrates gently against his cables, almost like a purr.

It’s an old language, older than the calming song drifting through the air and guiding his steps side to side. He can pick up the familiar rhythm and tempo specific of ancient Cybertronian in his Second’s muffled voice, but there’s a dialect there that he’s not versed in. An extra lilt that risks to throw everything off as he steps, pivots, and turns. But even if he can’t understand it, the not-quite-words alone sound like a song all themselves.

Eventually, it’s the only one he hears. His steps subtly change, and he finds himself rocking to that one instead.

He makes a note to remind himself to ask for answers later, not wanting to break his rhythm now that he’s finally found it. But for now, his servos flex and curl around the Seeker’s arms, one claw tip idly stroking down a narrow seam, and he revels in Starscream’s faint shiver as he slowly turns them about.

At the end of it though, when Starscream is no longer clinging to him but wrapped around him, their frames flushed close, and his own servos pressed firmly to the backs of his wings, he can’t remember the question.

 

Sharing a bath

He quickly submerges in the lake up to his broad shoulders, plates loosening and expanding outward to let the water sluice through his internals and clean out every nook and space inside his frame. He actually moans at the sensation, his vocalizer giving a soft warble of content as his wings flick and shiver through the murky water, and he settles down a little lower to soak. It’s not the solvents he needs, or the luxurious oils he’d prefer, but this time he can’t find the energy in himself to complain. All he wants now is to be clean of this world and the filth that makes it, even if that means enduring its filthy water as well.

He’s got one ped raised out above the surface, bitterly picking away at the hardened mud caked to his pitifully dulled talons, when the water near him is suddenly disturbed. Starscream squawks in surprise and jerks to stand as something settles all too close behind him, only to be stopped short by strong servos clamping across his wings and shoving him down, back into the water. 

He catches the reflection in the water looming over him, sharp edges made dark and distorted by the rippling surface, save for two pinpricks of red staring intensely back.

“Hold still,” Megatron’s voice growls somewhere above him, and Starscream at once stills and shrinks further into the murky water, his wings dipping submissively at the rumble of that voice so close, “and be grateful I’ve decided to do this at all.”

Starscream doesn’t move except to quickly nod, hyper aware of those claws resting so deceitfully gentle over the smooth planes of his wings, and knowing more than any just how easily they could rend his precious appendages to nothing.  
His Master’s claws give a last squeeze around his wings, both a warning and a threat, before they finally release him. He’s nudged, urged almost gently compared to his earlier touch, and Starscream doesn’t hesitate obediently leaning forward for those very same claws to get at his back. Megatron doesn’t say anything more, dutifully setting to work preening his battered frame; long slender digits picking between his joints and freeing out the dirt and debris he otherwise would not have been able to reach himself.

The significance of that isn’t missed, and tentatively Starscream urges himself to relax. He doesn’t know what’s brought this on, what he may have possibly done to have deserved it, but he doesn’t question his Master’s motives. The attention feels too good, and he can’t remember the last time he allowed anyone to preen him.

  
Slowly, Starscream feels the tension bleed away from his body with each gentle scrape and piece of earth that’s freed, loosening his joints until his plates are hanging slack once more, his optics offline, and his body is shifting subtly to guide each touch where he needs it. They pick between his wings, dig deep between their mounts and connectors, searching out each space and thoroughly cleaning, until Starscream is left strutless, certain that there isn’t a spot left untouched.

When Megatron dips a servo beneath the water and touches one submerged thruster, claw tips drawing lightly along the underside to their sensitive mounts, the surface ripples once more, and a pleased sigh accompanies Starscream’s surprised shutters. His wings perk, water splashing forth as they flutter briefly, and Megatron rumbles his approval as he repeats the motion to draw out another pleasured churr.

 

A hot kiss (how in the goddamn)

He can taste the burn of a sweeter energon on his Master’s glossa as it coxes him open and dips inside his intake, sliding over and curling along the roof of his reluctant mouth as he tastes his Second in turn. It’s odd and strange and so innately wrong, feeling another’s intake pressed so firmly against his own, their glossa invading, intimately feeling the way they move and curl inside him, but he can’t ignore the pleasured trill it sends up his struts. The way it makes his spark pulse and his hydrolocks weak in his knees as Megatron touches his him, cradles his helm and fondles his chassis. It feels too good. He whimpers when he finally pulls away in a huff of steam through his vents, leaving his face cold and his mouth unsettlingly empty, and he follows after without thought.

Megatron doesn’t hesitate to kiss him again, even as his over heated frame forces him to pant through his open mouth in an effort to cool down. Fangs gnash across his intake, growling, mouthing along his mandibles and biting each pliant component, and that same glossa dips back inside for another taste. This time, Starscream pushes back, and as their glossas slide together, wrapping, tasting and feeling and making his insides squirm, he can’t help but commend the humans for thinking of one thing right

 

A massage

He isn’t unlike a large cat when he’s like this, spread out across his berth, optics flickering and engine puttering in a powerful purr, and Starscream feels like he’s not just on top of the deadliest mech in the galaxy, but on top of the world. Because he’s just rendered the the most feared, arguably the most powerful mech in existence to a strutless pile of cables and metal, and all with only the tips of his claws kneading expertly into the pliant panels and seams that make up his mate’s chassis. It’s a heady experience, and Starscream revels in the fact that no other could have done this, would have even been given the opportunity.

“I can hear your processing.”

“Only thinking about you, Master.” Starscream croons, stroking his claws across his silver chest before once more digging them in, wriggling deep beneath his plates and massaging his inner most structure. “And how I love to see you under me.”

“Watch yourself, Starscream.” Megatron growls, his own claws coming up to grasp the thighs bracketing his hips with a warning grip, even as his frame arches up into those skilled servos once more. There’s a hiss of hydrolocks releasing as one particularly tender spot is assaulted by the Seeker’s talons, before half of Megatron’s body is sagging loose and relaxed, back into the berth with a pleased groan. The Commander clicks, pleased by the sight and the easy control he takes, and continues on down his abdomen.

“Only physically I assure you, my Lord.” A lie if ever there was one. Starscream still frequently thinks about his desires for leadership and his own plans to retake Cybertron, but he’s learned through the vorns the detriment of such dividing thoughts. Dividing and conquering did not work on a universal, let alone planetary level. If they wanted power, if they wanted Cybertron returned to its past glory, they needed to work together.

And, for now at least, Starscream is content with this. A Megatron that would willingly let his guards down around him and give him that bit of control he craves, rather than the mistrusting tyrant who would sooner take his spark than let his claws anywhere near his own.


	15. Irony (Skyfire/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stupid title is stupid. idk I couldn't think of anything.
> 
> I drew a really lazy thing on my tumblr that, looking back on it, I really hate, but it spawned this, and I love this, so I guess it all worked out? It's just some ridiculous sticky between Skyfire and Starscream. Really stupid and self indulgent for me.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~It's still in the bayverse, by the by. ha~~

“Do you want to know what’s ironic?”

Starscream groans, optics offline and claws clenching somewhere above his helm as he tries to comprehend what’s just been said. He can’t speak right now, can hardly form a coherent thought with the way Skyfire’s wonderfully thick fingers have left him feeling so empty, with his prepped valve cycling down in anticipation for the stretch he hasn’t felt in so long; he almost can’t hear himself _think_ over the thrum of his own chassis rapidly taking in and expelling heated air. He doesn't know how Skyfire can possibly think he'd respond.

He manages a quiet groan though that sounds vaguely like an answering query as both of his legs are gently taken in warm servos and lifted, his aft leaving the ground as he’s easily guided up and around the shuttle’s massive hips. His thighs clench automatically as soon as he feels the heat of him settle between his legs, holding on and drawing the larger mech closer.

He feels the blunted tip of Skyfire’s spike prod along his inlet, spreading open and gliding through the slickness coating his lips, and he moans pleadingly as his valve rim is passed over and his node teasingly grazed. He shifts, tilts his hips up impatiently into the prodding touch, and bares his valve to be taken, unable to take the wait any longer. He’s missed this – missed _Skyfire_ – _so much_. He needs to feel the other mech inside him again, needs to feel the piston of his hips and the drag of his spike over his deepest nodes; it’s the only cogent thought racing through his processor.

But Skyfire _doesn’t move_.

“It's ironic but I-I think after reformatting… you may actually be smaller now…”

Starscream’s optics flicker on to the sight of the white shuttle hunched over his prone body, arms braced forward on the ground about his head, and blue optics bright in both arousal and concern. It’s not an unfamiliar sight; in their past encounters Skyfire was always so worried for him, always so careful with his smaller frame, that it’s more frustrating than it was sweet. And especially now, when Starscream is nearly mad with desire after what’s felt like hours of preparation, and his valve is clenching desperately, needing to be filled. He doesn’t want to have to deal with this now.

Still, his optics slowly drift their way down, sights sweeping appreciatively over the length of his broad chassis and the slight swell of his blue canopy, before ending between his thighs.

He can hardly see over the swell of his own chest, but what he does see is more than enough; his interface array raised up from the ground and positioned just so, thighs spread wide, wet and slick with his spilled lubricants from his partner’s thorough preparations, and with Skyfire’s thick spike resting heavily between moist valve lips. 

His spark gives a small lurch, seeing just how much bigger Skyfire looks while poised above his small inlet.

The head of his white spike nudges forward only the slightest bit, and dark petals part easily to the shuttle’s girth, giving way and the pressure building over his entrance as he gently pushes, and his thighs actually _quiver_  around him when the pressure ebbs away and he doesn’t go any further.

Maybe his concerns have some merit.

But that's never stopped him before.

“ _Skyfire_ …” His vocalizer whines, and he bucks underneath him. Skyfire’s optics flicker as he stifles a quiet moan, then brighten suddenly, and his hips give a tiny aborted thrust into the wet heat rubbing along his spike; the motion gentle and restrained, yet still managing to jostle the Seeker’s smaller body. It makes Starscream's spark lurch again at the promise such movement entails, and he raises once more, trying to entice him forward and _in_. “If you don’t put your spike in me right now I swear to Primus…”

“I want to… so much…” He groans, voice a soft rumble edged by panting, unsteady ventilations, even as his hips continue to slowly pump forward and back along his array, slicking up the underside of his length and filling the air with wet, lewd sounds. “But I won’t harm you.”

Starscream nearly cries in frustration as his node grazed again, harder, more purposefully then before, and his legs kick out in attempts to free himself from the position he’s found himself in.

Then, he really does, when Skyfire’s servos are suddenly clutching his hips and holding him still, and his thrusts pick up a new tempo. Still unbearably slow, but harder, longer, the pressure of his spike rubbing over his valve and massaging his small glowing node making the Seeker toss his head back and shout in a mix of pleasure and indignation.

“Y-you _fragger_ –!”

Skyfire only lowers himself down in response, pressing their forehelms together and not flinching in the slightest when Starscream’s claws come up to viciously latch on and anchor himself to his heavily plated armor. He digs in, red optics burning up at him with a viciousness that would have scared many others into releasing him; but he doesn’t push him away.

The shuttle pants over top of him, their puffs of steam mingling together as he grinds their arrays in a slick drag of lubricants and metal. “Just let me do this, let me make you feel good…” He murmurs, optics blazing, voice fading and falling into more wordless grunts and moans, until neither of them are speaking anymore.

He doesn’t acquiesce so much as _give in_. With nowhere else to go, Starscream’s legs tighten around him, talons curling through the air behind Skyfire’s back as he’s held aloft for the shuttle to continue thrusting between his thighs, spike adding to the slick already beginning to drip down his aft from such an angle.

He can feel the throb of his spike working against him, his massive servos curling rhythmically around his hips with each restrained, focused thrust. After being worked over for so long, with the near constant stimulation of Skyfire’s length rubbing across his sensitized nodes, he can feel his overload rushing close, coming up on him embarrassingly fast as he’s driven over. But he’s so frustrated, so needing of this, he doesn’t bother fighting it back.

His claws scrabble across white plating, clinging to him, near snarling with unrestrained pleasure as he twists and bucks inside the larger mech’s hold; and Skyfire lowers further, pinning him down with his superior weight and drowning him with muttered encouragements of, “yes, that’s it, there, _there_ , that’s my Star, _that’s my Star_.”

Starscream manages to crane his helm back and deliver a bite across the shuttle’s frantic lips before he’s crying out in a quick and sudden release, body drawing tight and legs kicking out in convulsed pleasure as another wash of fluid pours down between his thighs.

Skyfire doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop his praises, just keeps pumping between his legs and keeping his pleasure peaked until he’s crying out again, and again, frame left dirtied and sticky by his own mess and it’s just too much.

After the fifth one he shoves at his chest, crying out weakly into the shuttle's neck, “s-stop! No more…!”

Skyfire shakily lowers him then, leaving the Seeker to sprawl out on his back, chassis heaving and struggling for cooling air, as he reaches between his legs and fists his spike.

It takes only a few quick strokes to have him overloading as well, and Starscream moans, hips twitching weakly as he feels his transfluid streak across his over-sensitive valve.

For a while, neither of them can muster up the power to speak, too focused on their own cooling frames as they slowly lower and ping back into endurable temperature ranges.

Eventually, Starscream manages to push himself up and brace himself on trembling arms, raising his helm just enough to glare up at the shuttle still kneeling in front of him. Starscream’s legs are still flopped indecently open and strutlessly draped over Skyfire's own folded thighs, the both of their lower bodies streaked pink and covered in dings and pain transfers, but right now he can't find the energy to care. Even his earlier rage over being handled so is slowly boiling down to a simmer, being replaced by a raw, strut-deep exhaustion that he can feel all the way in his deepest substructure. He'd forgotten just how good some aches can feel.

“Next time,” he pants, trying his damned hardest to maintain an angry voice and failing horribly as his once rage-bright optics start to dim, “inside me.”

Skyfire stares, doing his own heaving as well as his optics glower to a pacified shade, before a breathless sounding laugh escapes him, and his massive wings give a little flutter.

“Next time, we'll see.” He agrees with a tired smile as he reaches down for him. Starscream doesn’t fight it when he’s taken up and pulled against the shuttle’s hot chassis, cradled by an arm braced across his wings and another hand under his aft, uncaring of the mess between them as they’re rolled over and he’s tugged on top of his partner’s chest. He'll deal with it, and Skyfire, after they've recharged.


	16. Torture (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I really should write some other pairings. Either that or rename this drabble dump into something more fitting. Like Megastar with a side of everything else. idk, anyway)
> 
> A short thing from a tumblr ask meme that I actually liked after I was done with it. Warnings for orgasm denial, and Megs not being very nice. This is also my first time writing for a kink like this so apologies if it's not, like, the golden standard.

His frame curls forward where he’s knelt across the floor, overworked and exhausted, radiating heat and buckling in on itself as he feels the painful build start all over again.

It’s torture, pure and unbridled torture what he does to him. He disguises it under the ruse of pleasure, of placing all his attentions on him, not even asking for anything in return, only commanding that he kneel there and _enjoy_ ; but that’s all it is, a ruse, a wicked stratagem. This isn’t reward. This is punishment.

His internals, hot and tight and wound up with so much unrelieved tension, feel like an abused coil ready to snap at any moment. And it amounts so quickly now, what had once taken minutes to reach, now building up so rapidly inside him like an overcharged generator, the pent up energy never dissipating, only winding tighter and tighter with each denial, filling his lines with nowhere to go, and it’s _agony_. _Maddening agony_. His hands fly up, muffling the sob that’s ripped from his vocalizer as the one in his valve twists and curls _just so_ , pressing right against his deepest nodes and spreading his lips wide, and he can’t, he _can’t_.

“Master… _please_ …!”

The heated frame pressed up behind him rumbles with amusement– _amusement at his suffering_ –and the vibrations carry across his wings and deep into his inner most structure, making him shiver and buck. And he doesn’t stop.

The servo inside him keeps moving, pumping steadily in and out of his over-worked valve, slowly getting faster, drawing him closer with every plunge and flick over his glowing exterior node. He jerks in the encompassing grip of the other arm wrapped around his frame, holding him back and keeping him still, even as his drenched thighs start to tremble and shake, and his talons curl, frame drawing tight, vents stuttering and engine whining and and

His claws slash gouges through the floor, wailing as the ones inside him are abruptly yanked free, and his lubricants spatter freely across the ground as his valve cycles down on _nothing_. Both arms hold him now, pressing him down, denying him once more of that release as he thrashes desperately in search of _anything_. 

He whimpers, he cries, he doesn’t know the words that fire off so quickly from his babbling mouth. All he knows is that burning ache between his legs, throbbing through his lines whiting out his optics in static.

“Master, I _can’t_ , _**please**_ , just let me overload!”

He doesn’t realize he’s grinding back against him, rutting his aft against his Master’s cod piece in a depraved show of need, desperate for any kind of stimulation as he hangs just there, teetering on the edge of so close _so close just a little more_ , but it doesn’t matter. His valve is still bared, still untouched and clenching for what he just won’t give, and Megatron’s stance is firm.

“ _No_.”

He cries continue, clutching at the arms still held tight around him as he’s forced to kneel there, to wait it out and feel that release slowly–painfully–slip out of his grasp. And he crumples again, shaking, wings rigid as he collapses forward on servos and knees.

Several minutes pass, and it’s all he can do is kneel. Kneel and vent and try to calm himself down.

Starscream sobs, low and broken, as long claws stroke over his valve, tease him apart, and slide slowly back inside.


	17. Optics (Crosshairs/Drift)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WELL HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT'S BEEN A WHILE HASN'T IT. HERE WITH SOMETHING THAT ISN'T MEGATRON/STARSCREAM. AMAZE. WOW.
> 
> No warnings for this. Just some tactile and field-play. And gratuitous Japanese.

“I like your optics.”

“Do you now.”

“Yea,” Crosshairs purrs, sidling up close once more to the sprawled out swords mech and throwing an arm around him to draw him even closer. “’Specially when I’m watching you overload like that.”

Drift scoffs even as he allows himself to be pulled into the other bot’s chest, the metal hot and still vibrating with the gentle revving of his cooling engine. He takes advantage of it by smacking a balled fist against his pectoral plating, muttering a chiding, “ _ecchi da_ ,” and causing a few sparks to spray from the green metal for his effort, but Crosshairs doesn’t even flinch at the half-sparked hit. He retaliates the smack with a chaste kiss across his lips, then several more scattered to the rest of his scarred golden face, each one more sloppy and ill-placed than the last.

“Did you know they start to flicker when you get close…” He mutters against his mouth, his smirk evident in both the rasp of his vocalizer and the press of his quirked lips. “And sometimes, if I’ve done really good and I get you _really_  revved up… I can see them turn red.”

Drift doesn’t miss the way Crosshairs’ hold on him tightens just the smallest bit as he utters those words, and the paratrooper’s uninhibited field gives a tiny pulse of returning arousal.

“And you actually like that.” Drift observes, correctly too, if his slag eating grin is any indicator.

“I think every bot fantasizes about fooling around with a dirty con at least once.” He says with one nonchalant raise of his shoulder. “Taboo lusts and all that shite.” But his processor is obviously diverging down a different line of thought, now that he’s got the other mech back in his arms, and pressed against him rearing for another go; a simple line of thought that doesn’t involve explaining himself beyond what’s already been said. Already his hands have quickly migrated down Drift’s sides, gripping tight at his armor and pulling him close with a not-so-subtle tilt of his hips that grinds their plating back together, adding to the many telling paint transfers already there.

But Drift, on the other hand, is still set firmly on that line, and while his partner tries to entice him open with his invasive touches and persuasive kisses, his processor buzzes with a different kind of insistent need; one that demands to know more and dig further into this bot’s odd fascination with his old optics, and claim what advantage it gives.

Crosshairs doesn’t fight it when Drift presses at his chest and rolls them over, happily flopping over on his back with his coat tail spread out underneath him, and helping tug the smaller mech up on top of him with all the grace of handling a sack of spare parts. He’s like most mechs in that regard, at least; always becoming much more lethargic and complacent after one overload. Not that Drift minds here. It just makes him that much easier to manipulate.

“And is this what you fantasize?” Drift chuckles, his still newly integrated blue lenses brightening subtly with piqued interest as he carefully straightens up and moves out of range of those questing lips, until he’s properly straddling the green mech’s hips. “Sneaking off in the middle of the night cycle to go fraternize with the enemy.”

“Oh yess,” Crosshairs smirks, and his servos immediately raise up to grip his slim waist and steady him as his field sends out another warm steady pulse, hitting his frame with another tempting roll of his hips. “ _Fraternize_ until the new cycle starts and they have to send a search party out looking for me. And when they do find me they won’t even _think_ to think that I’m lying when I tell them I was out scrapping cons.” He pets down Drift’s sides, fingering the lines marred into his blue finish with an appreciative hum and a knowing smirk. “Because I’ll be covered in the scratches and dents to prove it.”

Drift makes his own approving hum.

“They may even praise you for your initiative.” Drift muses aloud, adding to the little imaginary scenario with no small amount of amusement.

“ _Exactly_.” He grins, and Drift grins back. Servos flex around him and that enticing field rolls across his plating again, more insistent than before as he tries to coax the samurai back down. Instead, it has a different effect.

His grin turns mischievous as he reaches down and grips the hands still set on his waist, and, with a superior strength unassuming of his size, wrenches them off. Crosshairs’ optics widen in surprise, but quickly narrow back into that familiar lecherous leer as Drift pins them down, servos held to the cool earth on either side of his helm, framing his face so there’s nowhere else for the paratrooper to look besides up at his looming partner, and the night sky behind his helm.

“Ahh so that’s how it’s going to be…”

That leer falters though as he watches the swords mech watching him, wordless and silent as optical lenses slowly start cycling and shuttering, before his faceplaces are suddenly being cast in the red light of unfamiliar-familiar optics.

The ex con smirks down at his partner through garnet eyes as the green Autobot makes a pitiful sound, servos pushing uselessly at the ones pinning him down like a specimen about to be put under the blade, and hips rising up to grind at the body straddling his; close, but not close enough.

Crosshairs’ vents whine again.

“Tease.”

“ _Sukebe_.”

“Going for all my kinks tonight aren’t you, love.” The paratrooper drawls, but it’s noncommittal, distracted by the sight perched above him and the arousal that Drift can so plainly feel thrumming in the air between them. After only a short cool down period from their last tryst, it takes very little for Crosshairs fans to click back on again, and his field to reach out, meshing and molding around him in a haze of arousal. He allows his own to finally expand out again, and Crosshairs moans openly at the caress of his energy back pulsing around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no expert on Japanese, but from what I researched:
> 
>  _Ecchi da_ – basically calling him lewd or dirty  
>  _Sukebe_ – just straight up calling him a pervert


	18. Revolting (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More stuff about how robots don't kiss

The first time he saw it, he nearly purged his tanks in revulsion. As he sat there hidden in his new alt mode, two organics converged on his location and became locked together directly under his nosecone, engaged in what appeared to be a personal battle of who could devour the other first; and with neither doing a particularly good job at that. There was less biting and chewing and more just… mouthing, and _drooling_ on each other ineffectively. It lasted several agonizing breems before they finally gave up and left, with neither being the victor, and by the end Starscream was thoroughly repulsed by this planet and its inhabitants.

Further research informed him that what he’d just witnessed had been what the little insects call ‘ _kissing_ ’, and delving deeper into the definition told of its supposedly arousing intentions; and he nearly purged again. Of course, he’d thought bitterly, only lower life forms would find pleasure in such a disgusting, crude display. Exchanging their oral bacterium and calling it affection. How primitive. How  _revolting_.

_And it had happened underneath him._

Cybertronians would never do that. The very definition of the word ‘ _kiss_ ’ claims that it’s an action done in reverence, love, or even performed as a greeting, but Starscream didn’t see the parallel at all between this ‘ _kissing_ ’ and his race’s own connecting, which by their definitions should be the same _but it’s not_. One is simple and soft, straightforward, a mutual act with neither mech at risk of viruses; the other gross and ineffective, riddled with diseases that could be caught and spread to every partner a human could take.  _Revolting_. He wonders vaguely how this species hasn’t managed to kill themselves off yet, if they’re so willing to spread their contagions, especially to their supposed loved ones.

Starscream’s last recorded thought on the matter was trying to imagine himself pressing his fuel intake to another mech’s and somehow deriving pleasure from it, then instantly pushing that idea away; not liking the way it made his internals twist in the slightest.

The thought should have removed itself from his processor after that. It was unnecessary information, non-vital to his mission. And indeed, he’d though it had.

Only for it to resurface, many Earth solar cycles later, where it is met with the same reaction; Starscream’s internals twisting into knots as he stares at up Megatron’s shuttered optics, their forehelms resting heavily together as their synced venting fill the darkened quarters with a quiet hum; a muted, droning sound that normally should bring relaxation and ease, but not now. Even as thick servos pet the joints of his wings and stroke the ridges on his helm, and Starscream’s own idly trace the individual silver plates that assemble his leader’s chassis, his mind wanders back to that finding, still stubbornly taking up space in his processor. And his optics slowly lower down to that mouth set into a permanent snarl, with fangs openly displayed.

His internals still clench thinking about it—about the organics he’d seen, and the repugnant images he’d viewed in his subsequent research—but underneath that revulsion, that unpleasant churn in his tanks that threatened his composure, there is a curiosity that begs to be sated.

And his logic algorithms deem now to be the most opportune moment, with a participant in front of him, and the sensation of their connection fresh in his processor for him to perform comparisons with.

Without a word, their forehelms break apart, and Megatron’s servos tighten suddenly as their connection is abruptly lost; one set of claws digging into his struts, forcing him to remain where he is, and the other curling around his helm as if to yank him back and reestablish the connection. It’s instantaneous, an almost instinctual reaction to regain what had been lost, only to be stalled by the soft and sudden tap of Starscream’s intake touching his leader’s.

The sensation is dead, the warmth of his Master’s face just barely transferred through the contact and, Starscream notes with silent pride, not pleasurable in the slightest. Not like the connection at all.

But of course, he thinks smugly. Their race is far too advanced for such debased things to feel pleasurable.

His processor stores away that gratifying information for later, but any more quiet musings are interrupted once he realizes his are no longer the only optics online.

Megatron is looking down at him now through the darkness of his own quarters, his once fierce grip gone slack, and his brow plate lowered in agitated confusion.

“ _What_ was that.”

Starscream would have backed away but, slack or rigid, Megatron’s hold is still more than what his own strength can handle. His instinctive jerk back proves that. He’s stuck like this, immobilized by arms that had mere kliks ago been warm and pleasant, and servos trapped between their frames. In place of an escape, he strokes the silver plating under his claws again in attempts to appease the larger mech.

“Forgive me for my impulsiveness, Lord Megatron.” He croons as he clutches the Decepticon leader’s chest, claws clicking over seams and the divide down the middle, hiding his spark. “I was merely testing something.”

There’s a beat of silence that hangs just long enough for the uncertainty to set in, the worry that he’s finally overstepped his bounds… and then Megatron’s responding hum vibrates up his servos, either in consideration of his answer, or appreciation of the long digits once again exploring his chassis. His own servo returns to stroking Starscream’s helm, his spindly digits concentrating between the arching ridges and making the Seeker’s legs weak. He trembles, ex-vents in a mix of pleasure and relief as his optics shutter, and another hum travels up his hands; more amused than the last.

“And what might that be?”

Whatever good his ministrations are doing apparently aren’t good enough though, if Megatron is still curious enough to press.

Megatron’s own, though… They certainly are. And his gentle touches and purring vocals easily pull the answer from him, quicker than any beating ever had.

“A human practice called ‘kissing’,” he finds himself muttering almost absently, practically preening under the other’s touch and too distracted to care otherwise. These touches, these moments, are still a new and rare thing between them, and he takes the most he can out of them, whenever he can. “A vile thing that you shouldn’t trouble yourself with.”

He tilts his helm back further into the touch, silently asking for more of those gentle strokes, for the connection to be reestablished again, either and both, he didn’t particularly care which.

But he gets neither. Slowly, the tracing claws turn to distracted scrapes, and as his helm hung back and he’d yet to receive his Master’s helm, he opens his optics to see Megatron’s own once again; dimmed, and distant. He recognizes it quickly as the larger mech doing his own searching into the subject, and Starscream feels something inside him drop with dread.

If he hadn’t been angry then, he’ll certainly be now, once he sees what it is he’d tried to do. He’d be disgusted, offended, would toss him out of his quarters and never call him to his side again and that would be that.

As Megatron’s optics cycle back into focus, Starscream prepares himself for the scowl, the snarl of disgust and his reprimand for what he’d done.

Only, Megatron doesn’t. When he focuses back on him, it’s in quiet consideration, as if he were studying him too.

For a while, the silence is even worse than what he’d expected.

“Master?” Starscream prompts quietly when the silence becomes too much to bare, and Megatron’s optics snap up at the sound of his voice. Quick, just a fraction, but just enough to give away the fact that he hadn’t been looking at _him_ , but his intake as well.

He doesn’t know how to process that information.


	19. Perfect & Ours (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I posted this to my tumblr but forgot to share it here. Oops.
> 
> ~~Pregnant sex? Pregnant sex.~~

He presses his face into his upturned neck, the warmth of heated metal and fresh oil smelling just as sweet as the thick scent of his mate’s pheromones invading his olfactories, making his mind fog and his mouth water with the urge to _bite_ and sink his fangs into those exposed lines; but it's an urge he readily ignores for now. His thrusts are slower than usual, hips bracketed by clawed pedes rocking in gentle, shallow movements, mindful of the tiny sparkbeat he can feel reaching out curiously to him from its carrier’s chassis. But he doesn’t mind the pace. Prefers it, actually.

This way, he can feel intimately how Starscream’s valve clutches around his spike for more, how the subtle curve of his gravid chassis is made all the more prominent as he curls over his prone body, and the swell rubs along his frame with every thrust; warm and heavy and full of life.

Megatron’s chest rumbles at the thought, of his spawn curled up safely inside the Seeker beneath him, pulsing and fluttering at his presence, and he has to release one steadying hand from his hips in order to work it between their bodies, because he simply _has to touch him_. Starscream arches up into his servo to the best of his ability as his swollen frame is stroked and fondled, sighing his designation as he’s laved with his attentions, releasing soft ardent chirrs into his audiles as he rocks down on his spike, and the flux of his expanding field has Megatron’s own reaching back, touching and familiarizing and enveloping, until they’ve molded together as seamlessly as two halves becoming whole.

He can feel the newspark between them as they clutch and writhe, caught inside the pulse of their strong intermingling fields, sensing their presence and feeling their bond, and whirling happily to the beat of their—its creators’—sparks.

“He’s going to be ours,” Starscream vents, voice distant and laced with astonishment as his claws dig into the grooves of his backplates and his thighs tighten around him, drawing him closer, like he still can’t believe it.

Megatron squeezes his hip, tightening his hold as he turns his head and presses their helms together. He mutters, firm and unwavering as they continue to rock together, “he’s going to be perfect.” And he really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone should write me something. Like, totally, give me that procreative smut and idk I'll write you whatever the hell you want. Doesn't even have to be smut. I just want some bayverse Megastar to read that isn't my own...


	20. Chase (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something kind of old from tumblr, but I felt the need to update this with _something_

Flying high in the upper atmosphere, reaching speeds never before attempted with his engine burning and the resistance near none on his wings, Starscream had him fooled for all of three seconds.

First, with the realization that he was alone; high above the Earth, and the Seeker that had been tailing him for hours no longer anywhere to be seen.

Then, with the surprise and shock, realizing that he’d actually done it; he’d actually somehow managed to out-maneuver his Air Commander in the last place he ever thought he’d be able.

Then, finally, another shock; hitting him as hard as the jet that comes barreling out of nowhere and slamming into his underside, as he’s suddenly knocked out of his flight path and sent careening back into the lower atmosphere. He’s hit at such an angle, purposeful and deviously calculated, something vital in him is jarred on that critical impact, and he’s forced back into his root mode mid-fall. And he drops like a rock.

Starscream is on him again before he can even feel the impulse to fight back, the Seeker swooping in and latching onto his frame as smoothly as he’s executed any maneuver in combat. The trill of his vocalizer is lost under the roar of wind whipping past as they plummet down, frames burning and lighting up the sky, but he doesn’t have to hear it to know.

Maybe just to spite him though, just a final quip before relinquishing his brief moment of control, Starscream coos again from his position on top of him inside the sizable crater their landing had left in the Earth; his wings hiked high and tilted back in smug pride. “I’ve got you, Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, in a lot of fanfictions it's typically the other way around, right? But I'd got to thinking how Seekers are characterized in the fanon as being interface or at the very least sparkling crazy, so a chase where they're the ones being chased down would be pretty pointless then, since they'd be more likely to roll over all "yesss take me!!" than put up an actual fight lol
> 
> And yeah... Starscream chasing down Megs for his hatchlings is an image that just amuses me so.


	21. Heat (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had a convo on tumblr about Starscream topping for once lol

It’s not the act itself, but the relief it gives him that has Megatron groaning aloud as he slowly lowers himself down on his Second’s spike, his optics flickering and his servo tightening viciously around the Seeker’s neck in order to keep him where he wants him as he takes him to the hilt.

It’s been centuries since he’s felt this creeping warmth invade his frame, and it’s persisted inside him now for too long to be allowed to go on unchecked, clouding his processor and obscuring his judgement; finally feeling something other than his own claws pushing inside him is like a sweet relief of its own, a cooling dowse of water to quell the flames still burning inside, and Starscream’s long, tapered spike alights and soothes all those heated internal nodes just perfectly.

He can feel Starscream moving underneath him, his wings twitching noisily against the metal berth as his hips rut up into his leader’s valve, and Megatron is content to just sit there and let him, enjoying the friction as their plating grinds together, his engine growling as every halted thrust brings about another sharp stirring of pleasure deep inside him.

“Master–” Starscream chokes off under the pressure of his servo, his hips stilling for just a moment, “–allow me–”

A moment too long, and another whine vibrates along his palm as he presses harder, his claws squeezing tighter until not another noise escapes him, and he feels the undeniable pulse of arousal in the Seeker’s thickly charged field as his spike throbs inside him.

“ _As you were, Starscream_ ,” he warns, his claws uncurling just enough, and his Second’s rasping whimper as he shakily starts up again alights a familiar possessive fire in his core. Reminding how, even like this, even where lesser mechs would be reduced to little more than scrap for the smelter in their painful heats, he still is able to reign in control, to keep his subordinate as he should be; beneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I can't picture Megs ever being submissive.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~but on my tumblr the conversation was basically about how whenever I try to imagine a situation with Megs using his valve nothing ever comes of it, because my mind always goes back to how much older he is than Starscream, and then just how fucking DRY his old as dirt valve is, so someone suggested the heat trope lol~~


	22. Domesticity & Parenting (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble collection within a drabble collection. How meta.

The human shrieks and stumbles back on to the floor, landing flat on its back and dropping a container of Starscream couldn’t be bothered to find out what in its sudden haste to get away. He snickers as it scrambles awkwardly back on its dirty arms and legs, kicking frantically away from the harmless little hatchling that had leaped from his plates, and is now trying to get at it; unaware its struggles are only making it more of an enticing target for the young mechanism. For a moment, he just watches and observes, debating whether he should even intervene at all; he’s not a real threat to its life, his joints are hardly strong enough to support himself on the ground, let alone do much in the way of ripping and tearing. But that grip could pose a problem…

He clicks, chidingly but amused, “Harbinger, no, that’s not to play with.”

The hatchling chirps unhappily as he’s easily plucked off the ground, his tiny claws raking briefly along the floor in an attempt to cling, having been only inches away from successfully nabbing the human’s small feet, but to no avail. He doesn’t fight his creator’s hand though, only making a muffled whine of protest before being hushed into passiveness, and he willingly clings back to his chassis as he’s brought up to the Seeker’s chest. As his claws latch on, the silvery plates dull out and darken back to copper, and he blends back into Stracream’s chest. The only indicator he’s still there being the small clicks and chirrups, easily heard over the human’s frantic panting.

Starscream’s helm swivels down, and he pins his sights on it, on the many tiny fragments and components that now litter the floor—likely delicate pieces of technology that should not have been left in its clumsy hands in the first place—and it cowers.

He hisses, speaking in the disgusting language it can understand, “don’t just lie there, insect. Pick this up before your foolishness damages it even more.”

As it scrambles to act with some tiny word of acquiescence, Starscream steps over it and continues as he was through the labyrinth fortress. Against his chest, Harbinger squirms and chitters, knowing through time and routine where they’re going, and anxiously awaiting getting to be with both of his creators at once.

 

“Give him here.”

Harbinger chirps tiredly as he’s traded off between his creators, squirming only for a moment as he’s held in the open—cold, revealed, exposed—before he’s brought to another warm chest, and he eagerly curls closer. The embrace of a familiar energy signature and the thrum of a different spark against his cheek quickly sets him back at ease, as it always does; but near by he can feel the other, the one he was just against, still buzzing close. Their fields mesh and mingle together, creating a shroud of warmth and comfort that envelops him like another, larger pair of servos cupping around his frail body. And it moves, active and living, like so many adoring strokes over his tri-tipped helm and down each segmented strut in his back; soft and loving, lulling him down to return to sleep.

Harbinger blindly turns over on the large hand he’s encased in, reaching out for the other source he knows is there, and he doesn’t have to reach far. His tiny claws hit his other creator’s chest, both so close to him, boxing him in like a protective wall, and the young hatchling trills happily in his sleep as his claws knead instinctually in.

Words are exchanged over him, words that if he were more aware he would understand, but for now the only objective on his processor is to sleep and recharge. He manages one confirming peak though, his optics tiredly cycling open in a dim glow of red, revealing to him the shadowed silhouettes of his creators’ helms—pressed together, nuzzling and muttering more distant words—before they click off once again.

Harbinger chirps softly as his frame steadily goes slack and his vents still, his body falling back into recharge. The last thing his consciousness is aware of is a gentle claw-tip, the very edge stroking lightly across his small brow, before his processor follows through and shuts off as well.

 

It’s out of habit that Starscream watches Megatron out of the corner of his sights as the warlord-returned-high-protector approaches him, the unconscious need to always be aware of everything in his surroundings winning out over feeling completely at ease here, even at the sight of his pacified mate. Protection and safety he may embody—may be in his very title—but that makes little difference in his hyper-aware and observantly coded mind. And especially now, with his creator/protector protocols in full affect.

It’s because of this he doesn’t flinch away when his new company lays his heavy servos across his shoulders, his claws curling around his supports and squeezing firmly at his body. He saw and expected it, and he even allows himself to lean back into his mate’s touch the slightest bit, if only just to acknowledge his presence there behind him. Innocuous and not very inviting at all, but Megatron isn’t a mech who needs encouragement in the first place; so, at feeling his response, his field gives a little pulse, and he steps closer, pressing along his back and against his wings with a deep and satisfied rumble.

Starscream squirms as the vibrations travel along his struts, and something stirs inside him.

“You’re looking exceptionally desirable this cycle,” Megatron purrs as he nuzzles the back of his helm, only making him squirm more, “did you polish yourself earlier?”

“No?” Starscream tries to turn around and look at him and convey his confusion, but Megatron simply moves his face lower, his nasal ridge nudging underneath the side of his jaw and tilting his head to the side, exposing delicate and vulnerable components usually kept hidden. As his warm vents blow down and into his chassis, the uncomfortable stirring comes back again, stronger, and the Seeker shifts the slightest bit away to escape the sensation.

But Megatron simply follows, his servos dropping down and slipping around his chest to pull him easily flush back against his frame.

“Of course not. You always look good.”

Starscream shutters as he feels sharpened fangs scrape gently along an exposed line, hard enough for his frame to rattle traitorously.

“What are you doing?”

Megatron hums. “I’m flirting with you.”

“Yes, well, stop it.” The Seeker shifts and squirms again, managing to get some much needed space between their too-warm frames, but his hands refuse to let go. Quite the opposite, actually. Even as he tries to separate them, his claws curl in and hook underneath his loose plating, holding fast to his body and keeping him close, even as he continues to try to get away. “We can’t do this right now.”

“And why not—”

Megatron abruptly cuts himself off with a barked sound of pain, and his right servo rips itself away from the Seeker’s chassis in that instant. In the blur of motion that passes before his optics, Starscream just barely manages to catch sight of them small indentations in one of his spindly claws, punctured in the shape of a row of tiny still-developing fangs.

A hiss that certainly isn’t from any kind of internal hydraulics sounds audibly from his chest, and he sighs.

“That’s why.”

 

Starscream holds him still while Megatron in turn gently holds out the small chuck of alloy metal for him to take.

Harbinger whines and turns his helm away though and buries his face into the divided clef of his conficio’s chest, away from his efficio’s outstretched hand.

Megatron just barely restrains a frustrated growl. “What’s wrong with him?"

"Maybe he’s not hungry,” Starscream answers uncertainly while he attempts to keep the little hatchling from trying to burrow its way under his armor; he’s getting much too big for that now, and he’s coddled him enough by letting him get away with it for this long. He needs to learn to stay out and stay comfortable in the open.

It’s easier said than done though. If there’s anything he’s inherited, it’s his inability to know when to quit; and Harbinger just won’t quit.

“Maybe we should try again later…”

And neither will Megatron. With a determined glower he tries again to get the hatchling to take the piece of alloy pinched carefully between his clawtips, but once again he stubbornly turns his mouth away and refuses with a whine. He huffs, his frustration only growing as he tries to follow the fussy hatchling’s mouth.

“I don’t care if he’s not hungry, he needs to eat it.”

Harbinger begs to differ. The third time he tries, his tiny hand smacks it away, hitting the warlord’s hand and making the brittle alloy break and crumble between Megatron’s claws.

The look that flashes in his optics can only be described as fury.

Starscream releases Harbinger in that moment, and the hatchling squeals as he quickly burrows away from his efficio’s hands. Megatron doesn’t make a move to chase him though, just continues to stand there, optics burning and jaw clenched tight; his grinding fangs the only barrier between the foul words building up in his throat and the audiles of his impressionable hatchling.

He hisses lowly. “ _Little scraplet_.”

The Seeker sighs and rubs at the spot their hatchling burrowed in through, if only to keep himself from snickering at his mate’s pinched face and the now familiar sensation of the tiny hatchling steadily worming its way deeper into his chest, towards his spark.

 

He’s sitting in his lap, playing with his efficio’s long and spindly claws, when his other creator comes in.

Immediately, Harbinger knows something is wrong here. His other creator feels strange to him; similar, the same field he was created in, has known his whole existence, yet different at the same time. When his weak little field fluxes out to greet his conficio, he feels repelled, like another is forcing him back. The odd new presence his familiar, yet not, at the same time. Not welcoming at all like his conficio always is.

But he looks happy— _pleased_ , the hatchling differentiates and trills at the knowledge, knowing he’s always guaranteed a treat if either of his creators are pleased with him—so Harbinger doesn’t dwell as long as he would have. Instead, he abandons his efficio’s claws in favor of chirping happily at his conficio’s approaching form and, despite the noticeable difference, he can feel the pleased thrum in his warm field as it fluxes out strongly to greet his creation. His efficio does as well, the frame he’s sitting on rumbling underneath him as the large mech makes his own pleased noises.

“Well?”

“It’s taken.”

His efficio makes another pleased rumble through his powerful engine, and though Harbinger has developed enough to understand his words, their meaning is lost to him. Taken? What’s been taken? And why would they be happy about that? He’s had things taken from him before—toys, playmates, even his creators have been taken from him in the past, required elsewhere instead of spending time with him, for one thing or another—and none of those instances that immediately come to mind have ever ended with him being happy like his creators obviously are, right now.

The little hatchling chirps again for his attention, and his conficio turns his happy-bright optics on him. He reaches for him, and Harbingers raises his arms eagerly to be scooped up. Closer, cradled against his chassis, the strangeness he feels is even more apparent. Odd, heavy, like his conficio is being weighted down by something else. Even his sparkpulse feels out of time.

His conficio nuzzles him though, the loving gesture and his contented warbles distracting his still underdeveloped mind just enough, and he forgets his worries. The difference is so small, so minute, his thoughts are easily drawn away by his conficio’s affection, and the tickling sensation of his mandibles across his helm that has him squealing in his grasp.

 

“Do you have any idea,” Megatron mumbles against the back of his helm, “the things you do to me.”

Starscream preens under his attentions, under his mate’s soft words and gentle claws as they pet over his distended plating, and his wings give an enticing little flutter as he rocks back against his heated frame. He laughs quietly, “I have a few.”

Megatron rumbles, “not nearly enough,” and he moves with him, his spike sliding through the Seeker’s wet valve lips and teasing his small exterior node; and Starscream arches, his would-be-snicker cut off by a hitch and a moan as he’s angled just so, with his hips tilted back and ready and the swell of his abdomen pressing into soothing hands. 

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop them off myself?” Megatron asks skeptically from where he’s hovering in the entryway to their hab, still waiting for Starscream to leave and take their hatchlings to meet their temporary caretaker for the cycle. He’d said confidently many hours ago that he would see to it himself, and commanded his High Protector not to worry, but, after stalling for this long, Megatron severely doubts his mate intends to do any such thing. Quite the opposite actually.

He frowns disapprovingly as he watches his Seeker cradle their two small bitlets closely in his hands, his claws curled under and around them in a protective bowl, as if he were about to stow them away back in his chassis, and his vents heave a heavy sigh. Starscream looks at him pointedly, and he does it again, if only to emphasize his stance. “I don’t think you can handle seeing them off alone.”

It takes Starscream several moments to get through his verbal floundering before he finally settles on a rushed little, “don’t you have somewhere to be?”

And _of course_ he does, but so does _Starscream_. That’s why they needed this caretaker in the first place, to watch over their hatchlings for them while they attend to their other duties. But it seems his Second has forgotten that.

“ _Starscream_ —”

“I know,” he intones, and finally takes those first few apprehensive steps towards the entryway, their two little hatchlings clinging to his chest and chittering quietly. And immediately his frown slackens. He can’t allow himself to be too mad with him, not when he wants to do the same thing. If he weren’t so at risk of slacking his obligations he would never let another mechanism alone with his heirs, but there is no avoiding this.

When Starscream is close enough he leans down to gently but their helms together, a wordless apology if ever there were one.

“The sooner you take them, the sooner you can have them back.”

Starscream nods, despite his—both of their—reservations of the fact; it needs to be done.

“I’ll see you when we’re done.” Megatron says his part, and strokes a claw over each of their hatchlings’ helms in goodbye, before letting Starscream pass and then leaving on his own.

 

It’s unclear now whether the stifled crying he hears emitting from their hab is from the lingering pain in his welded pede, or the harsh lecture he’d just been given by his seething efficio. Either way, Starscream finds himself in a precarious position, torn between his two conflicting creator protocols; one demanding that he go in there and give another scathing lecture to their creation himself, and the other to run to his side and comfort the little youngling in his obvious state of distress.

It’s in this conflict that he ends up settling on staying by Megatron, in order to try and cool the warlord’s still raging temper before he goes back in there and makes the situation worse. The energon had already been cleaned from the floor and the absconded blade removed from the scene while they were rushing their creation away to be repaired, but Megatron remains here now, pacing heatedly over the spot where they’d found Harbinger with the gouge in his foot and the weapon dropped mere feet away; lying on his side and crying at the top of his static-laden vocalizer in pain.

They’d learned from the medic who saw to him that the wound had only been superficial, just surface damage that would heal over quickly and not even leave a scar when his self-repair has taken care of the rest; but seeing Harbinger there, curled over with energon dripping between his little claws as he clutched his foot, it had been one of the more terrifying moments in all of the Seeker’s function. He doesn’t know what he would have done if things had turned out worse, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about all the ways that could have escalated into something far more lethal.

So he focuses instead on his mate, and the familiar heat of anger radiating off his frame, leaking into his powerful field with no outlet to place it on. An equally precarious situation in its own right, but not one he hasn’t walked with grace before.

“Come on now, I think you’re being too harsh. He’s just a youngling.” Starscream comments lowly as he follows tentatively behind him, walking carefully, his wings tipped down in submission, but his words no less firm. When he’s close enough he sets his servos on his arms, touching his mate with soft, palliating strokes to ease his anger, and it’s like they’re back on the Nemesis all those years ago; his Master consumed with rage, and with only his touches and crooning words to keep him at bay. “Remember all of the stupid things we used to do when we were his age?”

“I have no idea what sort of idiocy you committed, but _I_ didn’t steal _energy swords_ and nearly _dismember_ myself with them!”

“No, you just guns.”

Megatron growls, but he doesn’t deflect from that truth, nor the claws that reach up to his shoulders to dig skillfully under his thick pauldrons, and knead into the tense cabling lying underneath. His shoulders loosen only a fraction, but it’s enough for him to know he’s getting somewhere, and he can continue on; moving closer, hand slipping down to clutch his frame to his and nuzzle at his jaw, trying to ignore the soft cries he can still hear faintly from their room.

After a long moment of heavy silence between them, the older mech finally sags in defeat, his vents heaving a tired sigh as he turns and nudges back into the scraping touch.

“Don’t tell me not to be mad,” Megatron mumbles against him, “you’re mad too. I can feel it in your field.”

“Of course I’m mad,” Starscream admits softly, not hiding that in the slightest, “but what’s done is done, Master. Harbinger wounded himself by doing something he shouldn’t have, and you punished him as you saw fit… But he’s still hurting.” The crying still being heard is testament to that, and Megatron actually looks hurt, ashamed even, as he separates them and slowly pulls his helm away. Starscream follows though, determined. “And it wouldn’t be right for me to comfort him without his efficio there to reassure him as well.”

Megatron turns his head towards the crying, uncertainty palpable in the warm field still enveloping them; and, for a moment, Starscream worries that he will refuse.

Thankfully, Megatron nods instead. Feeling his first amount of relief in what’s seemed like hours, Starscream sighs and follows his mate close in tow back to their room to see to their creation.

 

It’s not a rare cycle Megatron onlines and has to fight the immediate urge to roll over and ravish his sleeping mate.

What is rare though, is him onlining to a berth vacant of hatchlings, and absolutely nothing to stop him from acting on that urge; save for the urget time pinging on his chronometer, and the lonely space remaining in between them.

It is this such an occurrence that Megatron onlines to this cycle, with no creations of his in sight to deter his advances, and only a scarce few breems to spare before he would be needed elsewhere.

And so, ignoring the stiffness of a deep and satisfying recharge still lingering in his frame, Megatron vents out a pleased rumble and turns over, reaching across that short distance to lay his claws on his partner’s chassis and tug him closer.

Starscream has yet to come online himself, and so his still recharging frame thrums under his servos with his idled cooling vents and passively running systems. His sockets are dark, his optics offline and helm lulled to the side in his sleep; and, if Megatron looks close enough, he can see the barest of gaps in his slack mandibles. It’s such a stark contrast from the Seeker he sees outside this room, with his stance rigid and optics always narrowed sharply in suspicion, like he’s anticipating a fight at every corner, he may have felt guilty for disrupting his peaceful recharge. If watching him there didn’t make his frame heat up with want.

He leans over his body, propping his tired frame up on one arm so he can loom in closer, and already the soothing shroud of recharge is beginning to fade from Starscream’s face as their fields come into contact; one cool and relaxed, the other hot and searching. His optics flicker, and Megatron grins to himself as he ducks down, and bites the corner of his parted mandible.

The frame under him groans, and Megatron purrs back, his fangs gnashing slowly along his jaw and leaving faint lines of silver in their wake as he greets his rising mate. “ _Mellitum_.”

Starscream’s vocalizer warbles in and out of tune as he shifts slowly into consciousness, his processor still muddled in recharge even as his sights groggily come into focus, and Megatron isn’t at all surprised when he hears the first sloppy string of words to leave his mouth. “Wh’re’th’hatchlings…?”

He tries to move, perhaps to push him away or to search for their creations, but all the warlord needs is to press his servo down and Starscream is easily pinned back to the berth, his wings twitching and scraping gently along the surface where he’s being held without effort. His vocalizer makes another unintelligible warble, and Megatron quiets him with an assuring hum against his cheek. “Sh… they’re asleep.” 

There’s a beat of hesitation, the struggling of his addled processor trying to assess the situation nearly audible in the warlord’s head.

But then Starscream shivers, his field palpitating in slow, easy waves against his mate’s encompassing energy as the understanding finally takes root, and he relents what little restrains he had as his optics blink off once more. “Hurry before they’re up again.”

Pleased, Megatron delivers another promising bite across his intake, and again over and under his jaw, growling all the while as he slowly shifts and moves over his prone frame. He’s still nibbling down to the fuel lines in his neck when he finally pushes between his thighs, and they lock around him almost immediately, drawing him closer and pressing up against his codpiece.

His wings tap noisily along the berth as they flutter without his control, impatient now as Megatron chuckles and continues to knead his chest and mouth at his neck.

“ _I said hurry_.”

“There’s plenty of time—”

And then there’s a scratching noise at their door. So light and quiet, if they didn’t already know it with painful familiarity, they would have ignored it.

Neither of them speak, and it isn’t long before a small, staticy voice follows next.

“Creo?”

At the sound of Harbinger’s voice they both share an annoyed huff, but it’s Starscream who moves first.

Rather than get up himself though, he shoves at Megatron’s frame instead.

“Go see to your spawn,” he mumbles, and Megatron just barely restrains himself from growling for his second to get up and do it himself; but he knows by now how well his voice carries, even inside their own hab, and he is loath to let his hatchling hear their interactions outside that of the normal loving creators he is used to seeing.

Instead, he opts to bite Starscream across his neck once more, hard enough to sting and sharp enough to leave a lasting mark. His mate’s yelp of surprise is enough to heal his wounded pride for now, and he grins smugly to himself as he slowly raises off their berth and goes to retrieve the freshly recharged hatchling.

 

“Someone sounds a little fussy,” conficio chides him playfully as his claws snatch him up and tick teasingly over the hatchling’s thin platting, making him squirm anxiously inside the encompassing grip of his servos. His large optics cycled even wider, knowing what’s coming. “You must have something caught _in your vents_!”

“NononONO-OO-!!” Harbinger squeals shrilly, before his voicalizer abruptly breaks off into crackling peels of laughter as his conficio presses his intake to his abdomen, and blows hot air directly through his little chassis; tingling sensitive wires and puffing up his malleable plating. He kicks and scrambles in his claws, pushing futility at the Seeker’s face to get away from the torturous tickling of his insides, but it’s no use. “Creooo! Stooop!!” Squeals turn into yells, into cries, into screams, until his cruel conficio relents and pulls away, leaving Harbinger gasping in his hands.

Harbinger clutches his chassis, his little chest heaving with broken gasps of cooling air and the giggles that still linger inside him, despite his attempts to hold them in. He sees conficio’s mandibles flicker though, taunting and warning, and Harbinger flinches away, squealing once more.

“No more! _Please_ no more!!”

The large Seeker chuckles—a harsh, rasping noise that he’s seen other mechanisms flee at the very sound—but not Harbinger. His uneven vents heave a thankful sigh, knowing that sound only as his Conficio accepting another (temporary) victory over him.

“Very good,” he praises him and this time, lowering his helm back to his chassis, he gently nuzzles his rapidly cooling frame, “you’ll do well to remember your manners next time, Harbinger.”

“ _Yes, Creo_ ,” Harbinger acquiesces, for now, and with a last assuring nudge between their helms his conficio sets him back down on his pedes. 

 

“What is that?”

Starscream follows Harbinger’s outstretched claw, up towards the blue alien sky and the vague hexagonal patterns fading through it. Brief flares of light and fire can be seen coming off in pin-points of red, like day-time stars across an ugly canvas, like the falling debris of rock and metal that regularly streak by overhead. During the dark cycles they blend in seamlessly with the rest of space, and it’s only here that Harbinger finally notices.

Cybertron, in the process of being rebuilt.

Starscream can’t help the pang in his spark, watching it from the surface of this wretched planet when all he wants is to be up there. “It’s home.”

Harbinger whines, confused.

“But I thought this is home.”

“ _This_ is only temporary.”

He whines again, inarticulate and unsure how to voice himself. The varying emotions going through him too strong and complex for him to process, caught between curiosity and longing, and hurt and mistrust, and so he settles on the easiest, what he knows; anger. 

“Then why don’t we live up there?” The hatchling digs pointedly for information, sounding so much like his efficio. Starscream can only sigh.

“We will, when it’s ready.” He palliates with as soothing a voice as he can manage as he reaches down to stroke a claw over Harbinger’s helm. The rigid coolness of his field transmits the command without him needing to say anymore;  _no more questions_. “I only want you to see Cybertron as it’s meant to be seen.” And he’ll tell him only what he needs to know of it’s past, for now.

 

He came to the decision after walking into the audience chamber to deliver his updated roster. He’d expected to find Megatron in the middle of a hearing, and he’d fully intended on waiting it out and simply watching the old mech at work, in his element, off the field of battle. Instead, he’d found his mate not in the middle of a heated debate, but slumped gracelessly to the side in his great throne, with their two little creations curled up on his legs, sleeping right along with their recharging efficio. The two hatchlings both curled around each other and clinging to Megatron’s tired frame, one large servo draped over the two bodies, secure and protecting, so domestic and picturesque it felt surreal.

He’d paused in the entryway, and he’d watched still, just as he’d planned.

They’re gone now, Harbinger and Sovereign pried away and settled down to recharge in a room separate from their own hab; and, alone in a room startlingly empty of innocuous chirps and clicks, the most quiet it’s been since their creation, Starscream can’t help but coax Megatron’s half-asleep frame over him after they’ve laid down on their own berth.

“I want you to give me more.”

His optics are dimmed and tired, like two cooling embers dying down in the dark sockets of his helm, but even so they give a little flare of life at his brazen words; brightening with piqued interest at his Second’s unusual behavior as he rumbles complacently and allows himself to be pulled forward.

“More?”

“At least five.”

He slots familiarly between his thighs, their helms meeting with a soft sound of scraping metal, and the high protector’s amused chuckle vibrates across his face as they but lazily together. Starscream cants his hips up as that fanged intake brushes the overlaying panels of his cheek, just enough to rub his sealed valve enticingly against Megatron’s spike housing, and his large mate only chuckles tiredly again.

“We’ll start with one.”

He feels it where their chests are connected, the deep sound traveling through his frame with a force strong enough to make his chamber thrum with unsung energy, and in that moment he can’t recall a time he’s ever wanted to bare his spark, to feel his master’s osculating and melding right alongside it—meeting, exchanging, and creating—more than now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- An AU where they actually did take over the Earth, enslaved the humans to rebuild Cybertron, and had babies together. I really love it. This is my canon.
> 
> \- All of these were written out of order at different times, they just went together so I placed them in a kinda chronological order.
> 
> \- Efficio is my replacement word for 'sire', and conficio is my replacement word for 'carrier', just cause.
> 
> \- Harbinger is my little OC hatchling for them, and I know he's only mentioned by name once or twice in these drabbles, but Sovereign is their second. Both are adorable, spiky, monstrous little shits. And I love them.
> 
> \- Honestly Bay should hire me for a TF3 rewrite, this is so much better.


	23. Angry Kiss (Drift/Optimus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt

Drift blames the humans’ constant questioning for his handling of the situation. In the two years that passed, at any time or place he would be approached and asked by one of the humans about their missing leader; asking where is he now… when will he be back… have they even heard from him at all… how do they know he isn’t in need of help…

And every question he would brush off with ease, telling them that their concern is misplaced, that Optimus Prime is capable, and that he will return once he’s accomplished what he set out to do. And yet, at the same time, each question asked would be another chip in his confidence. At first he’d no doubt at all that his leader would succeed in whatever he’d set out to do, against whoever their creators are, and would return to them eventually. But doubts, it seems, are contagious.

Two years is nothing. In his time online, Drift has spent far longer waiting out for the end of a life-long civil war than he has waiting for Optimus to return from worlds and enemies unknown. Two years is hardly a blink in a Cybertronian’s life. Two years should be nothing. And maybe, at first, it wasn’t.

But seeing Optimus again, silver plates stripped of paint and still radiating heat from his entry into the planet’s atmosphere, scratched and marred and optics looking like they’ve stared into the Pit itself, but still very much alive, those two years felt like a lifetime of tension and grief being lifted from his spark. When they finally settle onto him, Drift feels relief surge in its place. And, underneath that, the heat of a hidden rage.

He manages to retrain himself until they’re alone, but once they are he doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Optimus’ face once he’s within range, quickly and without warning, and crashes their mouths together. Clutching himself closer, feeling the heat under his servos and his startled vents against his lips, and finally knowing he’s really alive.


	24. Awkward Kiss (Sentinel/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another tumblr prompt

Starscream keeps glancing back at Megatron, his mind reeling in confusion as it struggles to process everything that had just happened, and catch up with what’s about to happen now. He tries to meet his optics, beseechingly, silently pleading for some guidance on what to do here, but it’s impossible. His Master is turned away from them, clutching the wound in his helm as he growls lowly at the reignited pain felt there from Sentinel’s servos; the very same that grips his chin now and easily pulls Starscream’s sights away from his hunched frame.

It’s the confusion still reeling through him after watching his Master’s dethroning that delays his reaction, but even as that startling reality comes crashing down (that Megatron isn’t in charge anymore, that they’re no longer in control here, that Sentinel has effectively taken up his command) it doesn’t matter. The ever-present fear of disobeying keeps him in place as he feels Sentinel’s mouth latch onto his jaw, keeps him from jerking away as he feels blunted dentae dig in, and keeps him from making a sound as a harsh cut is gouged into his mandible.

Only when those teeth release him does he dare shrink back with wings cast low and his spark puttering in disarray. Still not all that certain what just happened.

“I’ll mark you proper when we’ve finished up here,” the Prime says, and Starscream squirms uncomfortably at the look he’s given, and how similar it is to the one the Fallen had given him when he’d returned, alone, from Earth. “This will do for now.”

Starscream glances back once more, and he withers uncomfortably at Megatron’s glowering gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcanon that Seekers in the Bay verse originally served the Primes.
> 
> And we have a running thing that Sentinel is a fucking creep about it.


	25. Not Yours (Crosshairs/Drift)(Implied Drift/other)

Crosshairs had the tendency to talk while giving him his transfluid. 

Short things, breathless things. So ready for me, Sweetspark… You feel so good wrapped all pretty around my spike… Going to pump you up nice and full… Going to give you _everything_ … 

It annoyed Drift, having the dirty words of a lover whispered in heated pleasure in his audiles, while the mech who wasn’t his rightful mate draped himself comfortably over his back, and supplied his body with what it needed to keep his protocols from devouring his own frame for the materials. He felt no connection to the act, no pleasure, only duty. Interfacing with his teammate was a means to an end, and he’d been promised from the very first time that this would be as detached as possible, that Crosshairs wouldn’t do anything more than give him what he needs. 

Words let slip, even under the haze of pleasure, violated that promise. But still, he’d tolerated it. 

Whatever gets Crosshairs there, Drift had reasoned. Whatever gets it done faster. 

He’d thought himself used to his mouth by now. 

But tonight he’s caught off guard. 

“Do you think he’ll look like me?" 

His fingers curl gouges into the Earth, and Drift shutters his optics and buries his face deeper into his tightly folded arms. The sharper dentae at the back of his jaw grind together as he restrains himself from responding to the uneasy clench Crosshairs’ words evoked in his spark, the startled thought that enters his processor, _that he doesn’t know_. Try as he might though, holding in his noises, not saying anything, refusing to look and acknowledge what it is he’s doing, he can’t hide the way his valve squeezes at the spike thrusting steadily deep inside him. 

It doesn’t matter how he feels about it, his body knows what he— _what his creation_ needs, and his mesh continues to ripple and pull around the intruding spike to draw forth the sustaining fluid. 

"I’ve fragged you so many times, it might as well be my bitlet growing inside you.” Crosshairs moans an airy chuckle against the back of his neck as his hips pump steadily in and out, and the arm that’s looped under his frame drags down his chassis, his servo groping Drift’s lower plates where his armor hangs distended, awkward and heavy with the weight of the large pod still growing inside him. Another moan vibrates against the back of his helm. “Made all from me." 

And just like that something inside him sparks, _reignited and alive_ , and the flames he hadn’t felt in years scorch away at his very being. 

Crosshairs’ hips snap and grind forward against his upturned aft, the thick head of his spike pressed tight to the roof of his valve and the small aperture to his holding tank, and Drift disconnects his vocalizer entirely as his optics roll back, pleasure unwillingly coursing through his veins as he gives an involuntary shiver, and overloads. 

He’s too disconnected by the burn, the almost painful twisting in his chest to notice when Crosshairs finally reaches his own completion, pressed flush along his back and pulsing into him with stuttering, uneven ruts; but he feels the flood of warmth seeping in, and the drip of it between his thighs, and he knows it’s finally done.

Drift snarls.

” _Get off._ “

He shoves back violently before the dazed Crosshairs can have the time to even process the command, and the green mech falls back and lands on his aft with a startled yelp. His panel is snapping firmly shut as soon as his spike has slipped free, trapping everything in, even though Drift would like nothing more now than to let it drain all the disgust away. 

Even more than that though, he wants to whip around and tear the tubing from Crosshairs’ throat. For the degradation, for even suggesting that Drift’s creation could be considered _his_. 

What right… _How dare he_ … 

Without a glance or another word, Drift hauls himself up onto shaky legs and storms out of their little hidden spot behind the trees. The secluded place had been his one piece of comfort when all this first started, knowing that no one else would be able to see his infidelity, but now he has to escape it. Before he takes that knowledge that no one would see, and uses it to dismantle his teammate’s worthless frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a long-winded explanation kinda ruins it, but if you're confused feel free to ask orz


	26. Prime and Seeker (Sentinel/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE SO MANY DRABBLES SAVED ON MY TUMBLR AND IN MY PHONE'S NOTES WHERE IT'S JUST SENTINEL BEING AN ASTRONOMICAL DOUCHE TO STARSCREAM.
> 
> And a headcanon throughout all of them that Seekers are supposed to serve Primes, and Starscream hates it.
> 
> So here's three of those little drabbles. Not really meant to be read as a whole story, but you can interpret it like that if you want.

“I swear my loyalty,” Starscream mutters, on his knees in front of his Master’s desecrated throne, and the assembled remains of the Decepticon army at his back. Because of course it’s not enough to have killed his mate right in front of him, struck down before his optics without a fight, Sentinel has to make a spectacle of this as well.

It’s part of his punishment, Sentinel had said. For denying him, for attempting to trick him, for not accepting his true place. It’s not just his position that’s being stripped here, it’s his dignity.

“Not good enough, Seeker,” Sentinel drawls. “Did you not hear me the first time. Maybe I should eliminate those mewling little creatures next, then maybe you’ll understand.”

“ _No!_ ” Starscream bleats, his spark jolting with a painful, desperate throb. He stares up at the Prime, wings wilting and optics beseeching. “Please… Don’t hurt them…”

“Then speak up. And maybe put some more effort into proclaiming your new Master...”

 

His orders are different this cycle. Rather than return to his work in the hatchery with the others tending to and monitoring the new hatchlings, Sentinel orders his presence in the audience chamber instead, and has him leaving the room with curious optics burning into his wings as he follows Sentinel to his new post.

There, he’s made to stand by the Prime’s throne in silence, arms folded politely behind his back, not doing anything as he watches mech after mech come in to see Sentinel Prime for one thing or another. He honestly isn’t paying attention. Starscream knows he isn’t there as a guard because the mech usually appointed that duty is still there, standing on the other side of the chamber in stoic observation of the proceedings, and he wasn’t told to make any note of the mechs seeing him today, so he knows he’s not acting as an archivist either. He’s not cleaning, he’s not calling names, he’s not even making a list. He’s just _there_. For whatever purpose that’s yet to be seen.

After several breems though of nothing, the inactivity starts to get to him, and his joints ache annoyingly so from standing in one place and doing nothing for so long. Normally he would be moving around and working, able to ignore the pain by focusing his mind on the hatchlings instead; but now, here, Starscream can’t help his shifting pedes, betraying his discomfort to anyone that sees, including Sentinel.

As his legs creak, the old mech smirks.

“You have permission to sit,” the Prime eventually says to him at one of the brief moments between mechs, amusement thick in his voice as he looks at him, “you’re going to be here for a while yet.”

“Thank you, Master.” Starscream sighs, not about to turn the offer down for some rest. But Starscream’s relief is short lived as he glances around, and he sees no chairs nearby. Or anywhere in the room. His tired processor blanks for a moment, confused. “Where…”

“Where you are is fine.”

His wings twitch and he looks down, stupidly, like there would really be a place for him there under his unsteady pedes. But no, of course, there’s just the floor under his talons and the golden dais on which he stands with the Prime’s throne. Knowing fully now what Sentinel means for him to do, Starscream’s face heats up in both embarrassment and indignation. He would _never_ willingly debase himself so, and while in front of others too, he just wouldn’t…

But his legs are so weak. He’s been on them for days, working, running around, doing his appointed tasks with hardly a break in between. His joints shake like brittle glass under his weight, feeble and ready to give on out their own, if not the slightest pressure…

Even more pathetic than to kneel would be to collapse on his feet.

“Alright.” Starscream mutters, too tired to muster up the venom, as he slowly and carefully lowers himself down onto the floor to kneel by the throne. He doesn’t look at the guard across the chamber, or glance up when he hears the approaching steps of yet another mech seconds later; he merely sighs and offlines his optics, resigning himself to get his rest while he can. Better to regain some energy than to consciously endure this.

He maybe gets a breem though before the first touch graces his wing.

Starscream shutters and his wing immediately twitches away from the unwanted attention, but Sentinel easily follows it, his blunt fingers tracing idly across the flat surface between dark marks and hidden seams and making the Seeker’s chest roil. Distantly, he can hear Sentinel’s aged voice speaking something as he pets him, but Starscream doesn’t focus on the words. 

He lowers his helm, his wings dipping even lower in a futile attempt to get away, and he tries to hide the shiver of disgust that crawls across plates as Sentinel fingers and pinches the edge of his wing.

 

“Be a good pet and suck my spike.”

Starscream’s wings droop low at the look Sentinel gives him, the beckoning purr to his vocalizer and the firm grip around his wrist making his spark pulse faster anxiously in its chamber as he’s led forward, down onto his knees and between his legs before his Prime’s throne. It almost hurts, like it’s about to burst out and flee from his frame, just as he wants to now.

There’s something else too, a frightening  tug in his spark that, where once he would sneer at the old mech and his unwanted advances, now he feels only compelled to follow. 

He can’t bring himself to look at him though, his helm turned away from Sentinel and optics cast off to the side, as if he could escape that way. But this only makes him more aware of the other mechs in the chamber with them, standing off to the side attending to their own duties, pointedly _not_ looking at them, and Starscream’s wings wilt further in shame as he stares at the floor, then away from his own pathetic reflection. Nowhere to escape from the indignity of it all.

“Here, Master…?” Starscream mumbles, but the chamber is so quiet, the echo so prominent, they had to have heard it too.

Sentinel’s chuckle rings louder, and his spark constricts painfully.

“Yes, you’ll service me here. Ignore them,” he orders simply, gently, as if he were talking to a child, and then his servo there cupping his face and gripping his chin just as firmly as he had his wrist, “just focus on me, Seeker.“

Chest tight, mind numb, Starscream doesn’t fight it or the pull as his helm is turned back to face him. He only offlines his optics before he can see what he’s about to do, and obediently leans in and presses his mouth to the warm metal in front of him. Light and hesitant, still so painfully aware of the other mechs nearby, of how agonizingly loud the sound of his mouth is while it moves against Sentinel’s plating. He wishes he could melt into the ground.

He doesn’t stop though. He clenches his fists over his thighs and forces himself on, ignoring the lewd noise following every coaxing lick and kiss, his only focus just to be done with it. And the servo eventually drops away, freeing his chin as Sentinel’s groan sounds above him and he feels the Prime’s legs shift further apart.

“ _Good.._.”

Starscream shivers and squeezes his claws deeper into the tops of his thighs, trying desperately to cling to that one thread of _something_ that pulses warm and soothing in his spark at the praise. Praise he doesn’t even want, but praise he’ll still gladly take all the same.

Anything to distract him, to ignore the heated optics he can feel burning into the top of his bobbing helm, and the ones he can feel at his back, watching just as heatedly as he shrinks further in on himself. He clings to it helplessly and blocks everything else into the back of his mind as he opens his mouth against the irising panel, readying himself to accept his Prime’s spike.


	27. Fighter (Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guess what it isn't porn

After another short-lived cycle of hunting resources and gathering materials for their refuge, the oppressive desert sun has finally set, and with it so do the hatchlings finally settle down for the night, their hungry chirps momentarily replaced with the soothing clicks and whirs of sleep. A blessed thing that helps them temporarily forget.

As the desert darkens and cools around them, Megatron sits underneath the shelter on a short throne of tires and refuse, with a gutted fuel tank pulled up to his side, and a siphoning hose clamped between his fangs as he greedily drinks. His mouth twinges and scowls in disgust with each pull of the foul Earth fuel, and Starscream watches him from his place sitting in the sand, hungry and waiting his turn. When the hose is finally ripped from his intake and handed down, pressed like an offering to his trembling beak, Starscream wars with himself for hardly a second before opening his intake for the line to be pushed inside. He clamps down and siphons what’s left from the tank, suppressing the immediate urge to retch, and swallowing quick enough not to taste it.

But Megatron abruptly pulls the hose from his intake. As the end drips across the sand and Undermine scrambles between them to lap it up, Starscream grits his jaw and clutches his claws at his chassis. Inside, his tank pangs hungrily at the loss of the flow, but at the same time it churns uneasy with its new contents. It hurts to be empty, but it sickens him to be full. Frankly he doesn’t know which is worse.

“Idiot, you’re going too fast. You’re going to make yourself _purge_ again,” his Master scowls, and Starscream feels his insides sink even lower. His wings wilt and he looks away as he scowls to himself.

The sour look falls away though when he sees the darkened oil drums not far off, the faint sound of chirps and clicks drifting across to him and making his brittle spark soften.

He may not know which is worse, but he knows which he must do. Not just for his own sake, but for the sake of their future.

Long rusted claws trace over the ridges of his helm, coaxing him back, and Starscream willingly turns his helm with a muttered, “yes, sorry, Master.”

Undermine whines pitifully as the line is lifted up once more, and Starscream takes it pack between his beak to finish what’s left. Slower this time, ignoring the disgust that coils in his tank and trying instead to focus on the claws still carefully tracing the symbols forever burned into his frame as he drinks and drinks.

He spits the line out when it’s finally done, ignoring the little cretin still underneath them as it scrambles after it to scavenge what little Starscream couldn’t muster to take. But rather than stand, his wings lift in surprise when his helm is held in place, still encased by those same dirty claws, and Megatron leans slowly forward to press their forehelms together. Close enough that Starscream’s olfactories can detect the acrid smell of bitter Earth fuel on his Master’s fangs, but like the taste still lingering on his glossa he pushes it away, and pushes closer; raising up on his knees, head tilting and engine weakly purring as he accepts what else his Master has to offer him. This, too, is a blessed distraction.

Megatron presses back a little harder, rumbling quietly but no less firm, “they are fortunate to have you as their creator. They’ll grow to be fighters, just like you.”


	28. Fox in the hen house (Starscream/OC)(Megatron/Starscream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is from an AU I've been discussing in depth with a friend on tumblr, and at first this was just for them but I liked it enough to share it. ♥ All you need to know for this is that Megatron and Starscream have been making babies—a lot of babies—enough that they have other mechs around to help them because they can't possibly care for all of them on their own. And the best caretakers happen to be Seekers, and so of course a lot of the mechs helping them are Seekers. Which means a good number of them have tried moving in on Starscream. And this one in particular is a sneaky shit about it.
> 
> Also Starscream is still in his Earth form for reasons unexplained but the others are still Cybertronian. It's an AU please don't think too hard about it lol

Megatron is gone, and Starscream is feeling fidgety; one of the worst times for Megatron to be gone rather than be here tending to his nest-ridden mate.

Contrail is quick to move in though, abandoning his prior work and finding the other Seeker up and moving in his spacious dwelling, pacing back and forth like a caged predator. Contrail has no doubt if he were able his Lord would be striding, his wings hiked high in agitation as he quickly moved about the room; but, as it were, his heavily encumbered frame limits him to a pitiful shuffle, his wings barely lifting past his shoulders as his slowly moves with one servo holding his swollen chassis and the other cradling one of his new hatchlings close to his chest. 

By some will Contrail manages to refrain from purring aloud at the sight, but he can’t help the way his own plating puffs out bigger and his amber wings fan out, entrapped by the sight of a gravid carrier so clearly in need.

“My Lord,” Contrail starts, announcing his presence more than anything as he steps towards the shorter Seeker, “you should be lying down. You’ll burn yourself out otherwise if you keep moving.” 

Starscream hardly even spares him a glance, but Contrail ignores the sting, instead moving up closer behind the agitated carrier.

“Not possible. I’m too wound up.”

And he isn’t ignorant to what that means. After many pods and many hatchlings Contrail has become familiar with his Lords’ unspoken routine, and he knows that if not for the conflict of interest that has Megatron away now, the old warlord would be here, ensuring Starscream stays in his nest while he mounts and fills his valve with transfluid; all while Contrail diligently oversees the hatchlings in another room with the other caretakers.

Still, he plays ignorant.

“Do you want me to get the artificial flight ui?”

Starscream may lie all he wants about his current condition, but at the very least he is truthful here, going as far as to look embarrassed as he answers. “Not like that…” And it’s as open an invitation he’s ever going to get.

“You’re stressed, I know _that_ ,” Contrail hums, his confidence growing as he places soothing claws over Starscream’s broad shoulders, and the once-commander stills to his palliating touch. He doesn’t knead his claws in—not yet—only pets his frame with easy strokes that have his wings steadily wilting to his ministrations, allowing more room and freedom for him to work. This time Contrail doesn’t hide his purrs as he steps a little closer. Not touching, but close enough. “Stress won’t help the hatchling, my Lord. If you don’t want the ui, allow me to help you tone down another way…”

Contrail is startled at the speed Starscream whips around, just barely managing to move before one of his shoulders could accidentally knock into him. He quickly removes his servos and raises them in front of his chest, showing he means the shorter Seeker no harm. Starscream doesn't seem to get it though and glares wearily up at him, still holding his chassis and hatchling close, defensively. _Protective_.

“What are you suggesting?”

And to this Contrail isn’t ignorant either. He isn’t so foolish to think he could just move in while the sire’s away, he’s seen enough mechs before him fall to a similar fate by attempting to get too close and by having their intentions too clear, and he refuses to fall in himself. So Contrail remains calm, retains his easy field and friendly demeanor as he slowly lowers his claws into something less defensive and more neutral.

“I’m not suggesting anything, my Lord. I was only going to offer to preen your frame to see if that would sooth your agitation.” Contrail offers with a demure dip of his own broad red wings, playing the part of the willing and well-meaning servant nicely. “A healthy frame is beneficial to the health of the hatchling as well. And I don’t think anyone has come forward yet to preen you today. I only wanted to make sure you get all the care we are able to give.”

There's a beat of silence as Starscream considers him for a moment, but the taller Seeker can see he’s won him over already just in the way his wings slowly fall lax again and he shifts from pede to pede. Obviously strained now from standing this long, and maybe—Contrail quietly grins to himself—a little excited over the prospect of being preened again after going untouched all cycle.

“That sounds allowable,” Starscream finally mutters, and Contrail raises his wings happily as he reaches out to take the heavy Seeker’s arm and slowly lead him back to his nest, “but the hatchling…”

“I’ll take care of him, my Lord, don’t fret.” Contrail is already on it, his own long claws skillfully dislodging the tiny one clutching to Starscream’s chest until the curled up ball of talons and wings easily falls back into his waiting hands. While Starscream lowers himself back to his nest Contrail cradles the hatchling close, rocking slowly as its tiny body twitches and flutters without its carrier there to hold on to, until he’s successfully settled him back into sleep. He notes absently the trickle of energon dripping from the corner of its intake, traces left from where it’d no doubt been feeding while attached to its carrier, and he wipes it away with the edge of his claws.

“I’ll go put him down with the rest of the brood,” Contrail says as he watches Starscream struggle to settle down himself, both servos now on his distended plating as he huffs and squirms, and _oh_ , Contrail wants so desperately to join him now, to sit between his thighs and curl over his frame, and satisfy him like only another Seeker could. “I’ll be right back.”

He walks away with the fueled and sleeping hatchling tucked into his arm, his stride brisk and already anxious to return. 

Starscream snaps at him before he walks out the door, “don’t keep me waiting!” And he moves a little faster, his chassis warming and fangs glinting as he grins with excitement, already plotting out his next moves.


	29. Camera (Megatron/Starscream)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, those little robot flies from the second movie... Who remembers those things?

Megatron hadn't intended to do this.

He'd honestly forgotten there was a hidden surveillance camera inside Starscream's official quarters, left over from a time when the Seeker's loyalties were still in question, and he still even used the room for more than just an out of the way storage space for non-essential items. Now though, Starscream stays in _his_ berth, and Megatron knows _exactly_ where his loyalties lie. With that knowledge, there is no reason for him to keep this secret little window into his Air Commander's old quarters on his terminal. Just like there's no reason for Starscream to be in there now.

And yet, there he is, and still Megatron finds himself watching.

Starscream, sitting on the large metal slab of his old berth. His optics dark. One hand braced against the edge while the other is obscured between his thighs, and from this angle Megatron can't quite see what he's doing, but he doesn't need to see to know.

He can see the jerking movement of his hand, the slight parting of his beak as he gasps and vents for air. But most damning of all, he can hear him, whimpering underneath the slick sounds of his claws playing over his node, and Megatron can't help himself from feasting on the sight. His housing clamps down around his rapidly pressurizing spike, and it's all he can do to keep himself contained as he watches and listens and becomes consumed by the sight of his mate pleasuring himself in secret.

Megatron tries to look away, but Primus _he can't_. His optics stay trained on the screen, on the small video of Starscream servicing himself alone in his room, wanting and waiting and silently urging for him to turn. Just a little bit, just enough to confirm the image that's already playing in his head of Starscream's plump valve lips parted by his claws, opening himself and exposing the glowing node hidden between them.

But he stays as he is. The jerking of Starscream's hand gets faster, and his wings snap up as his intake opens in a silent face of pleasure, and the heat behind his cod piece becomes too much. Megatron shoves away from his terminal and leaves his quarters, engine primed and optics burning with intent.

 

"Ohh-hhh please _pleaseplease_ ~!"

Megatron growls from deep within his chest, his long claws curling tightly around the length of his spike while he leans back once more in his chair and watches the exquisite playback on his screen.

He finally has Starscream the way he wants: the large Seeker forced over and pressed on his side at that perfect angle, the warlord's servo wrapped under a thick thigh and prying those long legs open for the camera, displaying _everything_.

The fact that it's his own spike pounding that valve, filling Starscream up and making the Seeker claw the berth and squeal his name in bliss, makes this private little video all the better.

But as good as the sight and memory serves, Megatron's favorite part comes after, when Starscream's already reached his peak several times and is laying back, still filled with his spike, body limp and chassis heaving for more cooling air. Megatron skips ahead to that part now, the video coming to a stop where he's no longer forced into that perfect angle, but that's not what he's looking for now.

On the screen, Megatron is still bracketed between his Seeker's thighs, slowly grinding into that fluttering valve that he can still imagine around his spike now, and for a few seconds his chambers are once again filled with Starscream's breathless whimpers. Then a series of loud clicks sounds though the screen, and a pale light leaks through the gaps in Starscream's chassis.

The Seeker manages to let out another weak plea of, " _Master_ ," and Megatron's spike throbs in his fist as he watches himself curl over Starscream's frame, and the glow of his spark is lost between them, swallowed up by his own chassis as he opens up and merges them together.

The only sight the video provides now is of his own back and Starscream's sharp talons curling through the air, the sound becoming muted in the feedback of their merging sparks and lashing energies, but it's enough, more than enough. Megatron manages a few more strokes along his spike before he overloads again and spills over his claws with a deep and stated groan.

 

Starscream watches the screen by his side, his wings held at an inquisitive angle as he observes through the small drone's optics as it moves into position.

Eventually, he asks. "Exactly, how long have you had this device?"

Megatron answers casually enough. "This particular one has managed to survive from the start of the civil war."

Starscream's wings twitch again in that same tentative, investigative way, and he presses cautiously onward. "Not to question your judgement, Master, but... Why haven't you used it before?"

Rather than answer, Megatron turns a single optic on his Air Commander. And, while he doesn't exactly cower, he does realize his error and quickly retracts it.

"This should give us a window into their headquarters then?"

"Yes," Megatron answers with a smirk full of fangs, "they have humans working constantly to ward off any attempts at breaking into their systems, but what they aren't prepared for is a literal break in. A 'fly on the wall'."

As he says this, the tiny drone tumbles out of the darkness and into a large and spacious hanger. When the drone rights itself and the image stabilizes, the space becomes even clearer, and is revealed to them as a meeting area of sorts; containing blank screens set at all levels, platforms surrounding the perimeter for the Autobots' human pets to be at optic-level with them, and with none other than Optimus Prime himself inside. Another short, unidentified bot stands nearby, but other than that the room is empty. Perfect for the drone to set itself up, undetected, in the ideal spot for optimal observation.

Starscream's wings lift and lower in a brief little flutter, pleased. "An excellent strategy, Master."


	30. Hole in one (Megatron/Starscream)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I take my 'Starscream is a bird' headcanon to another level.
> 
> (Blame Sneer for this title lol)

Starscream is at his most excitable after a victory, when the energy is still fast-moving and pent up in his system with nowhere to go, and Megatron doesn’t even have to coax with pretty words or promises to lead the Seeker off somewhere private. Starscream eagerly follows at the ready, at his own accord, optics bright and helm raised attentively towards his Master.

Megatron never opens his valve to him, and he never will for the rest of their foreseeable future; but that never seems to dissuade the Seeker from fluffing up his armor and mounting him like another one of his kind anyway. His vents cycling and wings raising high on his back as he straddles low on his leader’s thighs, claws slotting into his clavicle armor as he nuzzles and chirrs against his chest, and his hips slowly begin to move. Back and forth, just barely grazing together. Even with his array still closed Megatron can feel the movement over him, the heat of Starscream’s exposed culvert almost like a tease as it passes again and again, urging his spike to press against its housing.

Before, he hadn’t known, had flipped the other mech over for his assumptions and roughly spiked his Air Commander there; but, now that he does, Megatron only smirks down at his Seeker as he watches him move in little aborted thrusts and erratic flutters, clutching at his frame all the while. His culvert rubs closer, the soft, yielding ring of mesh smearing over his hot array in a streak of lubricant and prefluids, and the little noise that chirps from Starscream's vocalizer is simply exquisite. 

He strokes his helm, gently, almost absently, his long claws curving under Starscream's chin to grip and nudge him up to look while he purrs. “Need something, Starscream?”

"I — I _need—_ " His vents puff with a whine and his wings beat hastily, urgent. His helm drops back to Megatron's chassis, his hips pumping quicker in time as he chirrs a desperate sigh of, “ _Megatron_ ,” against his chest; and his claw curl in tight seconds before Megatron feels the hot pulse of transfluid flow over his array.

Megatron at last takes his hips then, lowering his helm to press their crests together while he guides Starscream’s jerky ruts directly over his spike housing, rubbing that tempting opening over his own rapidly heating panel and through the mess he’s left, and Starscream trills louder as he overloads quickly again, wings beating and vents huffing as the metal slickens between them.

He doesn't wait for Starscream to cool down before he's flipping them over, and the Seeker is returned back to the spot where he truly belongs; beneath him, his legs still open around his thighs and his bared culvert a wet, _obscene_ mess between them. One that invites Megatron to finally fold back his dirtied cod piece and allow his hard spike to extend over his prize. 

"A tempting display as always, Starscream," the warlord purrs, watching with greedy optics the way Starscream's body twitches and trembles under his hold, how optics glaze over and his wings patter on the berthtop as the tip of his spike brushes over his culvert and slowly edges in; the sensitive lining spreading to accommodate. "But now it's time for me to show you how a _true mech_ takes his partner."

With that, he quickly slams in, sheathing the length of his spike inside Starscream's slick culvert and making the Seeker squeal from the shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you the 'Starscream has a cloaca' headcanon. ~


End file.
